My Father Sammy Glick By Max Glick
by Auburn Red
Summary: A What Makes Sammy Run? Fanfiction. Everyone has another side to the story. Here's the story of the famed screenwriter/producer/con man/irredeemable bastard-or is he? Told from the one who knew him best: his son.
1. Prologue: Forest Lawn

My Father, Sammy Glick By Max Glick

By Auburn Red

A What Makes Sammy Run? Fanfic

Disclaimer: I created Max Glick, Chris Glick, Emily Manheim, The Count Stefan Von Hossenburgh and his children, and anyone else you don't recognize. The other characters belong to Budd Schulberg and possibly to themselves.

Author's Note: Every story has another side to tell. While I think that Sammy Glick is a contemptible little worm, I thought that I would have his story told from another perspective because there is more than one way to look at someone. Because I have read a lot of books about Hollywood for a recent blog, I thought it would be interesting to do it in the style of a faux-Hollywood bio just to make things interesting. Oh and to let you know only the prologue introduction is written in script format, the rest is in regular first person. It makes sense that Max having grown up in Hollywood would begin by writing a screenplay.

My Father Sammy Glick: Confessions From The Son of A Hollywood Heel

By Max Glick

Acknowledgements:

I could not write this biography without the assistance of many:

To the people at Hollywood Publishing, thank you for allowing me to write the story and to my editor, Sarah Armstrong for her valuable incomparable assistance and for convincing me not to title the book, _Son of a Glick._

To the staff of Worldwide Pictures, thank you for allowing me access to my father's production notes, paperwork and information about my father's career and thank you to Lawrence Ross for deciding that my father needed "a vacation." No doubt he enjoyed it.

To my mother and stepfather, Laurette and Stefan, Countess and Count Von Hossenburgh, thank you for the vacations to your home in Lichtenstein and through Europe and allowing me time to write this. To my stepbrothers, Christian and Adrien thank you for introducing me to the joy of having older brothers. Especially to my half-sister, Liesel thank you for always making me feel welcome at my mother's house and being a real friend.

To my younger brother, Chris Glick, thanks for sharing the tough road with us and turning out as well as you did. No matter what, you are my brother and our father's son.

To my Uncle Israel, Aunt Rosalie, and my cousins for filling in the blanks of my father's childhood in Rivington Street and telling me things that I never knew about him. To my Grandma and Grandpa Glickstein, I wish I had known them.

To Rosa Gutierrez, thank you for caring me for the first few years of my life and introducing me to the softer side of my father that I never knew and Enid Golowicz for being my partner in caring for the house.

To Al and Kit Sargent-Manheim, thank you for your support and encouragement and never standing in my way even when I countered Al's version. Despite everything, Al, thank you for being my father's friend.

To my wife, Emily Manheim-Glick, thank you for always being the love and support of my life ever since we were kids and for the occasional use of the typewriter. For our little boy, Sammy-Al Manheim-Glick thank you for giving me a new life and for reminding me that sometimes we get a second chance. To our dog, Meshuggenah, our little "Shuggah" and our cat, Diva, thank you for occasionally giving me time to write between walkies and cleaning the litter box.

Above all thank you to my father, Sammy Glick for encouraging me to run not walk forward and to fight those who stand in my way even when it was you. For being equal parts inspiration and exasperation to me. Above all for always reminding me to be myself.

Dedication:

To my father, Sammy Glick

(1910-1960)

"The child is the father to the man"

~ William Wordsworth, "My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold"

"And God told Abraham take your son, your only son Isaac whom you love and go to the lands of Moriah and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains which I will tell you~ Genesis 22

Prologue

Forest Lawn

(Scene: Forest Lawn Cemetery. Day. January, 1965. A young man, 25, enters. He is tall, lanky; many would describe him as awkward and gangly looking. Many of those are his relatives. His dark hair is somewhat long, down to his neck and in front of his eyes. He is dressed in a clean black suit and tie. He looks down at his shoes, especially bought for the occasion. The young man could see his face in the shine through them and gives a slight grin knowing his father would approve. He is carrying a small bag in his hand.

The young man casually limps with a cane towards a certain grave. The limp is slight and he is used to it since he had it for most of his life.

He looks around always wary and nervous, expecting to see cameras or a crowd. Sighing with relief, that for once he is alone, the man continues stepping past graves mostly of famous Hollywood people, and people once admired now names on marble and cement. He finds the grave that he is searching for and reads)

Samuel Glick

1910-1960

He finally stopped running

(The young man kneels down to get a closer look)

Max Glick: Hiya, Pop

(Max Glick opens the bag. Instead of a bouquet of flowers, he pulls out a pair of new shoes and lays them on his father's grave.)

Max: I bet you're running things up there telling God how it should be done. Emily sends her love. She's got a new play coming out. It may be a movie. I'd like to see her direct it.

Chris sends his love too. He's doing great, much better than he was. He might be going to Berkley, if you can believe it, to study Production Design. They think they can get him on an outpatient basis up there while he goes to school.

I know that after you-well I vowed I would never come back, and things are great in New York. But you were such a huge part of my life, I can't just unwrite it and pretend like the last things we said to each other were the only things we ever said. I miss you and I'm sorry-But they are still talking about you and "The Book." That's all they see. They already put you on television and now they're making a musical. Next will be a movie, I'm sure. I hate that's all they know about you. I hate that only I know differently.

V.O. (a familiar voice comes up from behind Max): Then why don't ya do something about it, Kiddo?

(Max turns around and sees his father looking younger than he ever knew him. Sammy Glick, in the prime of life, the young man in his early twenties ready to take on Hollywood, dressed to the nines in his fancy green suit, flower in his lapel, yellow scarf, and wrap around camel hair coat. Sammy Glick, before failure, scandal, booze, smoking, too many pills and hookers turned him into a shell of his former self. He points at his son with a cigar that he took out of his mouth)

Max (indicating his cigar and says more out of habit as though Sammy was still alive and they were arguing in the living room): Don't you know what that can do to you?

Sammy (shrugs): I'm dead. What more can they do to me? Still boozing and take the pills too (He says this in the manner of an impish child trying to get his parent's goat).

Max (rolls his eyes): Still acting like an overgrown child.

Sammy: Anyway kid what I always tell ya, all publicity is good publicity. I said that when "The Book" was published remember? They see me as a cold bastard, let them.

Max: That's not what you said and that's not what you did later. We were with you that night and the next morning at the hospital remember?

Sammy (turns his back on his son): That was a moment of weakness, Max, an aggravated ulcer brought on by stress.

Max: You and I both know it wasn't an ulcer, Dad.

Sammy: Why are you remembering it like that? That I was a sobbing crybaby weakling that tried to take the easy way out?

Max: No, we remember you as a human being, you were contradictions and all anyone remembers about you is that you were selfish glory hogging monster, the worst in Hollywood.

Sammy: No different than anyone else in Hollywood.

Max: Yeah, but nobody else in Hollywood is my father. There were a lot of people who after you died, that were dancing in the streets. You know what someone said at a memorial, "I would love to tell you that Sammy Glick was a wonderful person and he will be missed, but he wasn't and he won't be."

Sammy: That was probably your mother.

Max (rolled his eyes): You loved her, Dad don't deny it.

Sammy: I'm not denying anything. Marrying Laurette Harrington was good for business and nothing else. Well I mean good for something else (He points at Max) She gave me the son I wanted.

Max (sighs. He heard this before): All I know is after your divorce, Mom married again and you never did.

Sammy: Why go through that crap again? Are you joining the Sammy Glick Hate Parade too now?

Max: Of course not. Since when is it hate to speak the truth about someone?

Why do you think I chose to stay with you rather than Mom? Even though no one could believe that I would do it? They had images that you would beat me like Joan or Bing supposedly did to their kids.

Sammy: I don't know you were going to school here, you had friends?

Max: Dad, I didn't have any friends except Emily. You always told me I was too shy for my own good. I didn't want to leave you alone and you didn't want me to either.

Sammy: So that's what you want to remember about me? Why? So everyone can feel sorry for me? You think that will make me Mr. Likeable? That I could be half the man I was?

Max: No, you made your choice. But as usual, I have to clean up after it. I want to save the reputation you have to make people see my father for the real person that he is.

Sammy (almost wistfully): You and Chris always were the good clean parts of me, Kiddo, especially you. I mean Chris is a great kid but he was messed up for a while, I know that now. I couldn't handle that, but you could. But you were different. You pulled us through. You were the kid maybe I would have been if I hadn't spent so much time running. I kept you from Hollywood as much as possible for that reason, maybe not always that great at it but I didn't want it to change you like it did-(He can't finish that thought. Even dead, Sammy refuses to bend, compromise, put on that human face). But why bother? Go, live your own life. One thing I taught ya always run ahead not back.

Max: I can't. There's this Sammy Glick shaped block in my way that I can't seem to shake. Everywhere I go, I hear your voice or see your face. As much as I loved you, sometimes you could be a real ass about some things. You've been dead for five years and I'm still living in your shadow, apologizing for you, cleaning up after you, defending you. And Chris my God-you remember what happened to him! I'm still solving your problems. I want to put that ghost to rest. I don't want there to be anything more between us.

Sammy: So you're a Glick after all. You are thinking of yourself. Why don't you write about me yourself? There are two sides to every story, give me mine. Tell my story, kid. You have my permission. You're a good writer, so maybe you aren't my son after all.

You didn't have to steal your first script, you actually wrote it.

Max: You mean tell your story so people can read it and hear it and make it public again?

Sammy: No our story. Tell about me as your father and you as my son. Stick your head out of your turtle shell and enjoy the public you spent most of your life hiding from.

Max: You spent most of your life in front of people did it make you happy?

Sammy: Sometimes, but hiding from them isn't going to make them go away and it isn't going to make "Sammy The Monster" or "The Book" go away. Let "The Monster" rest.

Max: I am going to have to reveal some things.

Sammy: Go ahead. I was never one to hide from a bad story.

Max: It may not make you come across any better than Al's version.

Sammy: It can't make me worse. Al has me as a composite of Satan and Hitler; the only worse way you can write me as a composite of Satan and Satan. With Satan thrown in.

Max (lowering his head): I was such a jerk to you in the end and I did the one thing that I swore I would never do. I left you alone. You died alone because of me.

Sammy: Then put your own ghost to sleep, kid. I have always told you to run and to fight and now is the time for you to do both. Don't hide, Max.

Max (stands up determined): You know what, you're right. I will tell our story. If no one believes it then the hell with them.

Sammy: You always were a good boy, Max. There ain't anyone better.

(Smiles break across both the faces of father and son. Max is about to turn around and leave but not before he faces his father one last time)

Max: Hey Pop.

Sammy: Yeah, Max.

Max: Don't say 'ain't.' (The two laugh and Max returns to begin this book).

Auburn Red's Notes:

While unintentional when I began this, I later found that there are lots of parallels in the relationship between Sammy and Max Glick and the relationship between _What Makes Sammy Run?_ Author Budd Schulberg and his father, Hollywood producer, B.P. Schulberg including how in later years the elder Schulberg had fallen in Hollywood and that his son had to financially support him. As I said, I did not know this but it does make the story even more interesting. I based the relationship between Sammy Max, and Chris out of a composite of different celebrity parent/child relationships like John Drew and Drew Barrymore, Keith and Marlon Richards, John, Michelle, Mackenzie, Chynna, and Bijou Phillips, Judy Garland, Liza Minnelli, and Lorna and Joey Luft, Jennifer Jones, David O. Selznick and Mary Jennifer Selznick, Jack Warner and Jack Warner Jr. among others. I guess fame brings that toxic relationship of an emotionally immature parent, the parentified older child, and the troubled younger child.

While I could have written this from Sammy's point of view, to do it in the style that I wanted to like a Hollywood autobiography would be too confessional from him. (Admitting that he had a vulnerable, suffering, desperate side is something he would never do.) I felt that he needed another buffer to speak for him like Al originally and since I love exploring parent-child relationships, I thought that I would give Sammy Glick a son to speak for him because he would be able to see the side that no one else sees behind closed doors (A second wife would make her too much of a Mary Sue, I thought. Besides I wanted to explore what married life would be like for the Glicks, what their toxic relationship would do to their kids, and the possibilities imagining Sammy Glick as a single father.)

For those that don't know Forest Lawn is a real cemetery in Hollywood. Many celebrities are buried there.

The shoes that Max lay on his father's grave is a reference to the book when the first thing Sammy buys for himself is a new pair of fine shoes after he scalps a co-worker for Broadway tickets. He tells Al "that's what happens when you're the kid brother and all you get are the hand-me-downs." The musical even goes so far as to include a song, called "A New Pair of Shoes." In the next chapter, Max explains that his father would order a new pair of shoes for his son every day.

They actually have put _What Makes Sammy Run?_ on television twice. Once in 1949 and another time as a two-part film in 1959. The 1959 version starred Larry Blyden and John Forsythe and is available on DVD (Youtube has some clips including the final confrontation between Sammy and his wife, Laurette one of the best scenes in the book.) It has also been a long-running Broadway musical that has been revived a few times. But it has yet to become a movie. On his deathbed in 2009 Schulberg suspected it was too "Anti-Hollywood." (Personally I don't think it's any more so than _Sunset Boulevard_ or _The Player_. Well if it can't be a theatre film, maybe AMC or HBO, Netflix even could pick it up as a mini-series in the style of _Mad Men._ Are you listening producers? :D )

My idea of writing the introduction in script format was based on Mary Tyler Moore's autobiography _After All_ in which she begins her book with a conversation between herself and Mary Richards. ("When people talked about how much they wanted to be like you, what they didn't know was so did I.") Katharine Hepburn's autobiography, _Me_ , also begins with a dialogue between herself and "The Character" she often played in her movies.

Max's references to "Joan" and "Bing" beating their kids were based on later accounts from the children of Joan Crawford and Bing Crosby which described their parents as abusive. While the accounts are anachronistic, it does make sense that Max would worry about people would imply that about Sammy.

Sammy's frequent description of Max being "the good clean part of me" comes from _The Twilight Zone_ episode "In Praise of Pip" in which a bookmaker, Max Phillips (Jack Klugman-my favorite episode with him in it) describes his son that way.

The dialogue where Max corrects his father by telling him not to say "ain't." is a reference to _What Makes Sammy Run?_ It was the first dialogue between Al and Sammy.


	2. Chapter 1: Run

My Father Sammy Glick by Max Glick

By Auburn Red

A What Makes Sammy Run? Fanfic

Chapter 1: Run

"Your father is _who_?" Most people ask for the first time when they meet me. I usually have to repeat myself a little louder, "Sammy Glick" as though they hadn't heard the first time and assumed I said, "Adolf Hitler."

(Usually followed by yes, " _The_ Sammy Glick, screenwriter, producer, former head of Worldwide Productions, and all around bastard. That Sammy Glick. Not only that but he's also my younger brother's father too." as though there was another Sammy Glick running around that they clearly mistook for my father. Believe me being an expert on Sammy Glick, that is one too many.)

"Oh you poor kid, I'm so sorry." Is usually the next thing people say when they finally believe who my father is picturing in their heads a torture chamber and a father who beats his children with a vinegar laced cat o' nine tails and sends them to bed without supper.

(My answer to that usually is dependent on whether or not my father and I had an argument beforehand. If it's the latter I'm usually nice enough to respond with "Don't be. I'm not" and if it's the former, I usually say "Not half as sorry as I am.")

"So do you see your father quite often?" is the next question especially when I was growing up. (Because clearly my corporal physical form is living with my mother, because all divorced kids should live with their mother and I just astral projected or teleported in front of them to answer their question and would not dare voluntarily live in Hollywood with the father who singlehandedly raised me and my brother-or sometimes I singlehandedly raised him and my brother. When I was a kid I usually said "Yes I saw him this morning." Lately, I've been saying "Yes at Forest Lawn. Nice place you should visit.")

While these questions are inane and clearly by people who don't know Sammy Glick at all, I can't really blame the questioners. They have this projected image of Sammy Glick. They see him as a plagiarist, a thief, a con artist, a womanizer, a go-getter who used and abused anyone to get to the top, a monster that finally got his comeuppance on his wedding night by his then-wife, Laurette Harrington. They see the version of Sammy Glick made infamous by the tell-all _What Makes Sammy Run?_ co-written by Al Manheim and Budd Schulberg.

The image people have of Sammy Glick is true in some respects. There are many things I can't dispute and some I choose not to. But what they don't see is a young man who never had a new pair of shoes so the middle-aged man made up for it by making sure that his sons had new pairs every day (express delivered- most of which I either donated to charity or waited until the previous pair wore out until I wore a new one).

The father who when he was faced with the choice of turning his back on his motherless younger son or taking him in, he took him in and cared for him even telling people that he had adopted the boy to make the transition easier for him.

They don't see a father who when his 9-year-old son was stricken with polio, stood over the boy's bedside and would never leave him. When the boy developed a limp, would spend countless hours helping him walk again. He would reassure his son when other kids made fun of him for being "a gimp." "Fuck them," the father said. "You have a great walk that makes you stand out."

The father who when his older son was little tried to hide from photographers behind his father's legs or would cry whenever they took his picture. The father who loved publicity, could be a whore for it, agreed that reporters would no longer come to the house or bother the son when he wanted privacy, allowing him to "remain fresh and unspoiled, just (his) little boy, Max Glick."

The father who when his younger son suffered from nightmares over his mother's death and moving into a new place would sit next to him and tell him stories to lull him to sleep.

These were other sides of the man that the book turned into the archetypal Hollywood figure, so that even now the name "Sammy Glick" is a byword for a Hollywood hustler.

Here is what I remember most about the publication of "The Book" (as Dad and I later called it. We never called it by name. When we said, "The Book" we both knew what book we were talking about.) I was 11 years old; someone at school said something about whether it was true that my Dad stole _Girl Steals Boy?_ I didn't know what they were talking about, but any accusations of my father would certainly result in a beating from me which it did. I was hauled to the principal's office that sent me in for detention and as I left mumbled the principal mumbled something about apples not falling far from trees.

I ran to my brother, Chris' Kindergarten class to walk him home the way I always did. I held onto my cane with one hand and my brother's hand with the other.

I mumbled apologies to his teacher and listened to Chris' ranting about why I was late, and how he must have forgotten about me, and what if I got into an accident and had gotten killed. I was annoyed and told my brother to shut up, I was there wasn't I?

When we came home, we already saw a crowd of reporters circled around my father's mansion like vultures circling around a dying carcass.

"What's going on, Max?" Chris asked confused.

"I don't know," I said. I kept my hand on my little brother's shoulder and led him through the reporters as quietly as possible.

My father answered their questions as quickly as he could.

"Mr. Glick, how do you feel about this book? Is there any truth to this story?" one asked.

"It's all just cheap gossip," My father said what he always told reporters when rumors of my parents' unhappy marriage crept up even up to their divorce.

"Will this book affect your standing at Worldwide?" another asked.

"You'll have to ask them," Dad continued still trying to maintain some hold on the conversation. I was practiced enough to know my father to realize that he was losing his grip already but trying to remain in control. He had the same expression whenever he and my mother fought.

"Do you have anything to say to either Mr. Manheim or Mr. Schulberg?" another reporter asked.

"Yeah I didn't know I was so fascinating for them to write a book about me," Dad said sarcastically. His voice got just a bit higher and I could inwardly see him reaching for a bottle of booze to calm his nerves. I passed through the reporters who didn't notice me, to enter the house. I had a feeling Dad was not going to be in a good mood that night.

"How will this affect the publicity of Worldwide's latest projects?" another one asked.

"Any publicity is good publicity," Dad said. He answered a few more questions, but finally slammed the door on the reporter's faces.

His head lowered and he leaned against the door not facing me. In that instant my father's confidence seemed to evaporate. "Some days everything goes wrong," Dad said more to himself than to me. He seemed to have aged ten years in front of me.

"Are you okay Dad?" I asked as Dad turned around and sank down on the floor his back to the door. I walked next to him and sat at his side, the Variety spread out at his feet. I picked up the article to see the news. I didn't look far only to see the headline: BOOK REVEALS DARK TRUTH ABOUT SAMMY GLICK. I read through the article which summarized the book and what it meant to my father's prospects at Worldwide (temporarily knocking the Red Scare out of the headlines.)

I was about to say something offer my sympathies when my father banged the back of his head on the door behind him. "How could he do this to me? I trusted him. I thought he was my friend. Not Al, anyone but Al!"

Dad stood up and walked to his liquor cabinet still mumbling, "Not Al! Anyone but Al!"

Chris was terrified and hid behind me as though he didn't recognize him, "What did Uncle Al do, Daddy?" He asked.

"He ratted on me is what he did," Dad said barely forcing the words out through his liquor. "He wrote a goddamn fucking book about me, making me out to be some heel!"

"Dad," I said hugging him across the arm. "It's going to be okay. They'll forget all about it soon. It's just like yours and Mom's divorce. It will disappear and you'll be left with-"

"-Be left with me, Sammy Glick," my father said filling a tumbler with brandy in a toast. He began to drink some more and got angrier. He finished a bottle and threw it on the ground. "That son of a bitch, Manheim! All this time, taking notes about me! Spying on me! I'll kill him do ya hear me! I'll kill him! Oh I'll make sure he never works in this town again! He's finished in Hollywood, he's finished!" He threw a few more bottles on the ground as they shattered. "You can't trust nobody! Nobody, nobody!" He sank to the floor. I walked up to him and held him. He just kept mumbling in anger and disbelief, "Nobody!" He would later deny that he ever cried, but then he cried right next to me.

The only thing I could tell him was that everything would be okay. What could I say? I'm sorry that the best friend that you had since you were 16 had secretly been writing a book about you and exposed all of your secrets? That the guy that as a kid I sometimes called "Uncle Al" and was best friends with his daughter, Emily betrayed you? All I could say to him was that he still had me and that everything would be okay.

Chris was terrified probably to see his father out of control, but he hugged the other side of Dad too.

Dad stood up and pushed us away vowing to make a few phone calls and repeated that he wanted to ruin Al.

I was worried. "Dad don't you think you should lie down or something?"

"Oh no, Kid, _you_ never run from a fight," He took another drink and walked back upstairs. As I grew older, I kicked myself for not paying attention to my father emphasizing the "you."

I waited for almost an hour half-reading _An American Tragedy_ and half-watching _Toast of the Town_ to get my mind off of things. Chris drew in his sketchbook his mind on his drawing and not on Dad's outburst. I wished I could have broken my thoughts from what happened so quickly, but I kept pacing and worrying about Dad, fiddling with my cane as I thought.

A large thump made me jump in fear and I limped upstairs. I knocked on the door of my father's bedroom and called my father. I knocked again but there was still no answer. I tried the knob but the door was locked. I slammed on the door getting more worried but it wouldn't budge. Frantic, I ran down the stairs and called the police. Chris stepped towards me, pushing me on the hand and asking what was wrong,

When they pushed the door open, I saw my father collapsed on the floor by his bed.

I was stunned as paramedics worked on him. I thought at first he had a heart attack or a stroke, but the spilled liquor and the empty bottle of pills told me the truth: My father had attempted suicide.

The police asked me a few questions about my father's health and any problems which I answered stunned and confused. I held Chris close to me and wanted to pick him up but was unable to because of my limp, but I hugged him tightly telling him that Dad would be okay.

We rode with the ambulance to the hospital. I paced back and forth in the waiting room as they worked on my father. Chris wiggled in the waiting room seat with tears in his eyes.

I don't know where this courage came from but I told the attending physician like I had seen my father do a million times for other people, that my father wouldn't like it if the papers said that my father tried to commit suicide. I felt almost like a fixer that the studio brought out to smooth rough edges off a star's reputation. I'm sure just the pleading anguished 11-year-old wasn't enough to make him understand. I'm sure the studio really bribed him or really did call a fixer. But no matter what the word was out that my father was simply in the hospital for an aggravated ulcer.

I never forgot that day, though my father did. Later when I was 17 and we got into one of our daily arguments, I mentioned his hospitalization calling it what it was: a suicide attempt. He looked at me like I sprouted two head and didn't know what I was talking about. He said "It was an aggravated ulcer and you know it." Rather than argue about this point, I agreed and let my father live in denial, so he would never recall that one night things had spiraled so far out of his control that he tried to take his own life. That if not for his son, he would have truly felt alone in a world of dishonest people filled with anger and revenge.

Sammy Glick was my father, my guide, my protector, my mentor, sometimes my TOR-mentor, my child, sometimes a bad child, sometimes a bad influence on his younger son,

my shoulder sometimes when I cried, my bodyguard, my best friend but also his worst enemy.

I was his son, his conscience, his mother, his father, caregiver and babysitter to his younger son, his cook and maid when we didn't have them, his nurse when he was sick or hung-over, his sounding board, his cheerleader, his rock, sometimes his public defender, and always "the good clean part" of himself.

He drank too much, popped too many pills, smoked like a chimney, and was a regular at brothels (especially after the divorce), but tried his best to keep us from any "Hollywood influences" not always to success. He could yell and throw tantrums like a kid, but then turn around and give me some good solid advice like an adult. Sometimes he had too much self-esteem, sometimes he didn't have enough. He hated being alone but he was always fighting the world. He inspired me and he exasperated me. He said I never was any fun, but then he said I was the one solid person he could depend on. He made me laugh and then would say something hurtful that he knew would upset me. He always needed me, but acted like he didn't. I liked being needed, but was often exhausted by it. He would brag about all of the people he knew and friends he had, but then glower about he couldn't find one honest real soul among them ("Excepting you, Kiddo," he'd say to me with a wink). We would fight often, but say we loved each other. The truth is sometimes I hated him because he was Sammy Glick, but I always loved him because he was my father.

Al Manheim always wanted to know "What Made Sammy Run?" Well, Al, I can't answer that either. In all of the years I knew him, I never knew. When he was younger fame and fortune probably. When he was older and he saw enemies everywhere, maybe

for survival. All that I can answer is I like to think when he needed to stop running, when he couldn't run any further then he came to me. Through the blur of a man running in

one direction or another, making a name for himself, clinging to his piece of the pie, I could see who he was: The man who on occasion stopped running to catch his breath and be human.

Auburn Red's Notes:

1\. Of course in this universe the book _What Makes Sammy Run?_ is only co-written by Schulberg with Al Manheim, so the fictional character helped the real author write the book. Try not to think about it too much. You'll feel better that way.

However, we will later find out that the fictionalized version of _What Makes Sammy Run?_ isn't published until the 1950's rather than 1941, like the real one was. We will discover the reasons later, but many of Al's reasons behind publishing it then are both political (think what was going on in Hollywood in the '50's) and personal (between himself and Sammy and between Max and Sammy).

2\. The thing about Sammy stealing _Girl Steals Boy_ comes from the book in that it was a script written by another writer, Julian Blumberg but Sammy sold it to Hollywood under his own name and made a success of it.

3\. Sammy's line "Some days everything goes wrong" is the title of the final song in the _What Makes Sammy Run?_ musical. It occurs after Sammy has caught Laurette in bed with another man and Al and Kit have left Hollywood and Sammy realizes that he's alone.

4\. _Toast of the Town_ was the original name of the _Ed Sullivan Show_.

5\. Maybe Sammy's attempted suicide after "The Book" was published might be OOC, but keep in mind in the original book we only have Al's first-hand perspective and other's second-hand perspectives of what Sammy Glick is like. The only time in the original book where he shows vulnerability is in the final chapter. However, we never know what people are like in every given situation and we don't get into Sammy's head at all. Sometimes the people who are the most expansive, most gregarious, most ambitious are the most miserable when backed into a corner. I wondered how Sammy would feel knowing his friend had taken notes about him and was writing a book and I think that he would believe it was a betrayal. As we will read, his and Al's relationship is still very complex.


	3. Chapter 2: Prince of Hollywood

My Father Sammy Glick By Max Glick

A What Makes Sammy Run? Fanfic

By Auburn Red

Chapter Two: Prince of Hollywood

 _Hollywood Reporter January 12, 1940-Hedda Hopper here with the latest news about our current Golden Boy Sammy Glick the youngest film president ever of Worldwide Productions has now added a new title to his ever growing list: that of proud father! His beautiful wife, Laurette gave birth to a baby boy, Maxwell Harold Harrington-Glick, a new heir to the Glick Dynasty._

 _The lucky little boy was named for both of his grandfathers: Glass Factory Owner, Maxwell Glick and Wall Street Financier, H.L. Harrington. "We are both proud of our family heritages and want to honor that with our son," Sammy told the reporters. "This little guy has a lot to live up to." Indeed, let's hope he can._

 _The parents were extremely happy when they presented their little bundle of joy as the father gave the loving mother a kiss and the two held the baby in front of photographers, thereby for now ending any speculation about any friction in the marriage as if that bouncing baby was not enough of a reason. Wink. Wink._

 _The little one appeared not to be too happy with his visitors as he cried at the first sight of the photographers and flashing cameras. You're going to have to get used to that soon, kid. Here's to the Glicks and the newest Prince of Hollywood._

I can't even begin to say how much my birth announcement is a complete tissue of lies. I sometimes look it over and think of how much of it is true. Let's see I was born on January 12, 1940, my name is Maxwell Harold Harrington-Glick, I was named for both my grandfathers, and….that's pretty much it.

Let's go over the list _:_

 _Proud father! His beautiful wife, Laurette gave birth to a baby boy_.

Despite Hedda Hopper's glowing account of my birth, there had been much speculation about my parentage, much of it spread by Hedda herself and Louella Parsons, and many others. The rumors began even during my conception and I was entertained with innuendo through most of my whole life from the time that I was old enough to understand what the whispering was all about.

There were plenty of rumors (from Hedda in particular) that my mother was pregnant but not with her husband's child. Some people speculated that my birth father was Carter Judd, an actor who barely rose above Poverty Row Pictures status (no doubt thanks to Sammy Glick not wanting to see his rival get anywhere near him in popularity). If not Carter Judd, then tongues wagged that my mother had plenty of "male friends" who could have fit the role of stud and expectant father.

That was the "Anti-Sammy-As-Father" crowd. Then there is the other side, the "Anti-Laurette-As-Mother" crowd. (Lolly Parsons favored this rumor). Many swore up and down that they had barely seen any photos or appearances of my mother "with a bun in her oven."

Of course many women didn't like to be seen pregnant and Laurette Harrington was certainly one who never liked to be shown in anything but her absolute best. She said that she spent most of the pregnancy in seclusion in New York (of course leading to more speculation and rumors). So they think that while Sammy is my father, they think my mother is another woman: maybe a prostitute, or a young actress looking to pawn her child off to his biological father.

Of course the funniest ones are those who think that neither Sammy Glick nor Laurette Harrington are my birth parents at all. They think either I was adopted or bought probably from Georgia Tann or that my mother had a baby that died and they traded a dead baby for a healthy one from a destitute unwed mother.

That's nothing compared to the story of my younger brother's birth, well my half-brother really, the child of Sammy Glick and a failed actress who committed suicide. Then my father told the press that he adopted Chris as a single parent. While the word was out that Chris was adopted, rumors instantly spread that Sammy Glick was his birth father something my Dad neither confirmed nor denied to the press. Chris' birth was an odd example of Hollywood rumors actually being true.

As for me my parents had always insisted that yes my mother was pregnant! Yes, my father made his contribution! Yes, I was born to both of them! They remind me that I have the "Glick nose, hair, and mouth" along with the "Harrington eyes, chin, and height." I have even seen my birth certificate which clearly states Mother: Laurette Harrington Glick. Father: Samuel Glick. But still the rumor mill spreads. It has spread after my father died, and will probably exist long after my mother and I are gone.

But as far as I am concerned, even if it weren't true in a biological sense, I always have said this: _Sammy and Laurette Harrington-Glick are my parents, period!_ They would never have qualified for "Parents of the Year" Awards. They were certainly the Antithesis of Ozzie and Harriet. (They didn't even come close to Gomez and Morticia). They were both conceited, shallow, and often made a point of fighting with each other often getting me to side with either of them. But in a strange unusual sort of way, I had no doubt that they loved me. They may not have loved each other, but they certainly loved their son.

 _A New heir to the Glick Dynasty….named after both his grandfathers…."Proud of our family heritages and want to honor that in our son."_

Well anyone who read _What Makes Sammy Run?_ is aware of how little of that is true. There is no Glick Dynasty and my grandfather did not own a factory. There is a _Glickstein_ family on Rivington Street, the Lower East Side of New York that had a father that worked as a glass cutter then pushed a cart. The readers of "The Book" will also be aware of how little regard my father had for his own father. Al Manheim even wondered, since he knew about my father's family, why Pop even bothered naming me after Grandpa Glickstein (or "Papa Glick" as the neighborhood called him) since they didn't get along.

Pop usually shrugged and said, "Harold sounded better as a middle name and I felt I owed it to the Old Man." As usual, what my father didn't say often spoke louder than what he did. I think that he had such conflicted feelings about his father: He despised him for his honesty and integrity that often put him at odds with a son who specialized in conniving and deception. He also hated how my grandfather was content to remain on Rivington Street and not rise any higher which my father considered defeatist. I think when I was born my father looked at me and said, "Finally, here's a Max Glick that won't take no for an answer, a Max Glick who won't stay where he is. Here's a Max Glick I can create in my own image."

Anyway, this is mere speculation. I never knew either my Grandfather since he died when my father was 13 or my Grandmother since she died when I was two. My father did not attend either of their funerals and hardly ever spoke about them. Once he left Rivington, he was gone and nothing would ever entice him to return, not even family.

It has only been in the past six years that I have made contact with Pop's older brother, my Uncle Israel, his wife, Aunt Rosalie nee Goldbaum (Astute readers of _What Makes Sammy Run?_ will recognize Aunt Rosalie as my father's ex-girlfriend. The one he left for Hollywood) and their children, my cousins: Jacob, Esther, Miriam, Eli, and Hannah. So all I know about my Glickstein family is second-hand information from my uncle and his family, from records and accounts of people that Dad grew up with, and yes from the dreaded "Book," so technically from Al as well.

As for my Harrington family, I sort of remembered my Grandfather Harrington when I was little, as an old man in fancy suits that used to give me candy. But I had very little contact with him growing up. Even though Grandfather Harrington helped finance my father's rise and eventual ownership of Worldwide, my mother made it clear that she wanted him to have as little to do with her husband as possible so I barely saw him. Perhaps she considered her family in New York a release from the hell of her marriage in Hollywood, so she kept them separate.

Grandfather Harrington died when I was seven years old, the same year my parents got divorced. Because my mother no doubt confided her troubles to him (Unlike my father and his family, my mother was close to hers much to my father's detriment), my grandfather had good lawyers and altered his will that favored my mother and her second marriage leaving nothing for her first. So currently, I am not entitled to any inheritance from the Harrington family since it goes to the Von Hossenburgh family, so there is no "Dynasty, Glick or Harrington" to speak of. As for any inheritance that I would have gotten from my father's film career, well the pile of debt, unpaid bills, money owed, trips to bankruptcy court, and the fact that I spent my late teen years providing for my father and brother speak for themselves. So I am not an "Heir" or a "Prince" of pretty much anything.

3\. " _The parents were extremely happy when they presented their little bundle of joy as the father gave the loving mother a kiss and the two held the baby in front of photographers_."

No doubt after the cameras left, my parents screamed their heads off at each other. To say that my parents had an unhappy marriage would be an understatement. People don't spread rumors about a child's parentage if their parents are clearly happy together.

There are many pictures that showed my parents holding hands and smiling. What they didn't see was how often they would curse at each other under their breaths, or roughly shove their hands from each other when they were finished. As if they were on timer and the second time was up, they would drop hands and their true selves would emerge.

I was so used to my parents' relationship, that I never thought that it was unusual. It never occurred to me how weird it was that my parents slept in separate rooms, or that at night they would run off to join "friends" late at night, or my father's "friends" would visit him late at night at the house. While their fights bothered me, I had gotten used to it as distant noise that could be stifled if I played music.

I never thought there was anything off about my mother and father's marriage until I was 5 and at my best friend, Emily Manheim's house. (Yes the daughter of Al and Kit Sargent-Manheim, my father's closest friends and enemies.) While at Emily's house, she and I played pirates and looked for jewelry that we could pretend was pirate's treasure. Emily said that her Mom had stuff we could use in her parent's bedroom. I didn't get her meaning and thought she said it was her mother's room. I said "Does your Dad's room have anything?" She giggled and said, "Silly, it's the same room. Don't your parents have the same room?" I told her no, confused and asked her if her parents fought as much as mine did.

She said No. "Well sometimes they do, but they always make up and kiss each other." "Even when there aren't any cameras?" I asked. "That's weird."

"Yeah, all the time. That's how they show they love each other," she said. "What's weird about that?" That's when it occurred to me, that my parents' marriage was simply for show and that they didn't really love each other.

As for their affection for me, well that's a bit more complicated. My mother was from the social status and generation in which children were cared by someone else other than their mother. So I was often put in the care of servants and nannies, like Rosa Gutierrez who was my nanny from when I was a newborn until I was 8. My mother was usually cold and unemotional at times when it came to her son. She was never the most maternal of women, friendly but not overtly affectionate. I never felt abused by her, but I never felt close to her like I did to my father.

Mom and I were not very close for the first years, but we did share some things in common, especially as I grew older and interested her. I learned to read at about 4 years old, so my mother often gave me books that were above my reading level, so we would talk about classic books. My favorite earliest memories of her are when she brought me books like _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_ , _The Three Musketeers_ , _Treasure Island, David Copperfield_ and _Moby Dick_ and after she read or I read, we would talk about the book and what happened sometimes even discussing deeper meanings in them like themes and symbolism. Reading was something that never interested my father. He talked a good game about certain books but never read them, so I think Mom was pleased that someone in her family also loved to read.

She also often took me to places like art museums and symphonies, so I grew to appreciate art and classical music which I still love thanks to her. So there were some moments between us that I remember fondly. But there was a distance between us that continued as I grew older. After my parents' divorce and my mother's remarriage, the distance grew and I never felt comfortable feeling more like a guest at her home rather than a son. Only in the past couple of years, has our relationship improved but it took a long time.

My Dad was also not very fond of having an infant around the house. Many of the former servants would talk about Sammy Glick running to meetings, talking on the phone, and never remaining in the house for very long. "The only acknowledgement that he had a child was to tell us to 'make the kid stop crying,'" Rosa said teasing me.

It probably would have remained that way except for one night when Dad was left alone with a screaming six month old. Now, I know my father can lie and is not above jerking a tear to gain sympathy, but I am used enough to tell when he is lying and he is telling the truth and I have no doubt this story is true. Also, Rosa confirmed it.

Dad said pretty reluctantly, "So I was working on these papers for Worldwide and I couldn't get to sleep to save my life. There you were, screaming your head off you know with your 'waah' waah.' Rosa had left saying you'd been changed, fed, and all that stuff I don't care about. Your mother was who knew, who cared. No one else was in the house but you and me.

Anyway, I went in your room and you were in your baby crib still crying like there was no tomorrow. I kind of rocked the crib telling you to give it a rest and promising you a dollar if you'd shut up, but you still cried. I then figured maybe if I picked you up, you would finally stop your yapping. So I picked you up, and you just stopped. I was surprised so I put you closer to me and you smiled at me like you were happy to see me. I just looked at you and there you were, so innocent, honest, not wanting anything except for your old man to pick you up and hug you. That moment, you were, you know the best, truest thing that I had ever done. You, I don't know you loved me for no other reason than I was your dad. You finally yawned, so I took you to my room to put you to sleep."

Nanny Rosa confirmed this story. "The next morning when I came to work, I entered your room but you were gone. I knocked on your father's door fearful that something had happened. Remember this wasn't too long after the Lindbergh Baby Kidnapping, so I was afraid the same thing happened to you. But instead, I saw you asleep on your father's bed next to your Papa. His shoes and tie had been removed and he was still in his shirt, trousers, and socks but he was asleep. He had an arm around you and you were close to his chest. The two of you were so peaceful and quiet. I had never seen your Papa so calm.

The oddest thing was your father continued to take you into your room until you were over a year and a half old. He would wait until everyone had left for the night; including your mother as though he didn't want to be caught admitting that he cared about you.

Then he would take you inside his bedroom and let you sleep next to him. You know, during that time, I don't think that he could sleep unless you were by his side."

I heard Rosa's story and I think how indicative it is of mine and Dad's relationship. That when it's the child who needed to be comforted by the parent, the parent needed more comfort from the child: that my father needed me more than I needed him.

My earliest favorite memory of my Dad is when I was 3, one night when he drove me outside the Hollywood Hills. He lifted me to the hood of the car and put me on his lap and we looked out at all the lights below us. He pointed out the Hollywood sign and the Worldwide Studio where he owned. He jokingly asked if I could see our house and I pointed at Grumman's Chinese Theater. Dad laughed and said, "Well we spend enough time there at premieres so it might as well be our house." (Later it led to a running gag where Dad would always point at the Chinese Theatre and say "Look Kiddo, it's our house.") He then said that when he first moved to Hollywood, he would come up to the hills, look at the lights, and swear that he would own everything below it. "Now I'm getting there, Kiddo, and soon it will be yours too."

I don't remember how we got on the subject but my Dad said that there were lots of Bad People down there. "What are Bad People Daddy?" I asked.

Dad answered. "Well they lie, steal ideas from other people and pretend they are theirs, they cheat other people out of money, and they treat their friends like dirt. They think only of themselves. The worst people are the ones that stand in your way, the ones that tell you 'No,' the ones that don't want you to be a success because they're jealous or they want to hold you back. Only thing you can do is run over them."

"Are there Good People down there Daddy?" I asked.

Dad smiled and gave me a tight hug. "Sure, some of the best ones down there are smart, fun, talented, and creative."

"What's cweative?" I asked.

"That's when someone has an idea in their heads that's new and different and they want other people to see it," Dad said. "Down there, there are many people who are creative: actors, writers, and directors, even people who work behind the scenes like make sets, and costumes, and makeup. Lots of creative people."

"Are you a Good People or a Bad People Daddy?" I asked.

I still remember my father being silent and not answering my question. He kissed me on the top of the head and said, "Come on, it's getting late and about time for you to get to bed." He then lifted me off the car, led me inside and we headed for home.

Of course as an adult, I knew my father could never answer that question. He didn't want his son to think anything bad of him and he didn't know the answer himself, probably didn't want to know.

" _The little one appeared not to be too happy with his visitors as he cried at the first sight of the photographers and flashing cameras. You're going to have to get used to that soon, kid."_

Okay, that part was no doubt true. But the lie was I didn't get used to it. I never got used to it. Even though I am 25, I still get nervous about publicity and reporters. I am filled with dread even now as I write this account knowing that I will have to talk to many people and answer many questions.

Despite or more than likely because my parents were outgoing and loved publicity, I was always very shy to the point of panic.

When I was very young, my father would often push me in front of the camera, inviting photographers to our home, on vacations, anywhere that the Glick family was.

Probably to project an image of "Sammy Glick, the Family Man." My mother enjoyed it too. She would be made up, and glamorously dressed in a way to top the best female movie stars.

The only one who wasn't happy in the photographs was me. There are many snapshots of a certain toddler either crying or with his back turned so he didn't look at the camera.

My parents often joked about it. My mother would say something like "Well of course, they are here because your father is famous and I'm famous, and you're famous because you are such a darling little thing. Of course they want to take your picture."

My Dad would say, "Imagine if they weren't here at all, Kiddo."

But I didn't care. I hated strange people coming up to me and getting in my face and asking questions. To me, these weren't people who were trying to get a story. They were strange giants that scared me.

My father was at first aggressive about me being shown to photographers and for publicity, until my 6th birthday party. Well it was more than my 6th birthday party. It was actually a promotional blitz for my father's latest movie epic, _The Glick Follies_. WWII had ended and Dad wanted to bring back the style of the old musicals and the fun of pre-war Hollywood, so he spent a fortune to create a musical in the style of the old Busby Berkeley/Ziegfeld Follies musicals.

You never heard of _The Glick Follies_? I'm not surprised. The kindest reviews described it as "an incoherent mess," "a dreadful hodgepodge," "The bazaar in misled pretentiousness," "Lacking flash and glitter," and "it appears that Mr. Glick tossed the story out to make room for his cast." One reviewer criticized the lead actors' performance but "would not sully (his) pen to describe their singing and dancing." The box office receipts were just as dismal.

My father spent a large amount at the time on the movie and just as much on the publicity including combining it for my party. My mother was given the task of organizing the party which she did with her usual style of modesty and humility: She hired a circus and fireworks. The performers sang songs from the movie.

All of Hollywood's Elite's children and some well-known child actors were invited. I think Roddy McDowall and Elizabeth Taylor were there, but my memories of the actual event are a blur. I know for sure many Toons were there. Dad never liked Toons very much because they "got too much on (his) nerves." He only liked them for their entertainment value. Plus he was close acquaintances with R.K. Maroon so some of Maroon's regular contract players like Roger Rabbit and Baby Herman were at my birthday party.

And of course Roger's wife, Jessica attended at my father's request. I remember looking back on that day; my father spent a great deal of time talking to and get more than a little handsy with her (and in front of her husband no less. My father literally had no shame.).

One name was conveniently off the guest list: Emily Manheim. My father and Al still continued their weird friendship. Sometimes Sammy would say something and then Al would caution him against or make some sarcastic comment that Dad would always think was a joke. Then Dad would talk behind Al's back about he was behind the times and didn't know what he was talking about. But the two were still there for each other. I think Al was the only person that Dad really ever confided in until I came of age.

My mother and Kit Sargent-Manheim however did not get along at all. Honestly, Mom didn't care that much for Al either considering him beneath her, but her vitriol was mostly focused on Kit.

They were civil when they had gone to Vassar, but since their husbands were friends and they had to spend more time together they grew to hate each other. My mother thought Kit was a "mannish frump of a Bluestocking" and Kit thought Mom was a "pretentious snob."

Kit was everything that Mom wasn't: warm, active, unafraid to speak her mind, kind, and she was a screenwriter herself so she had a career. My mother only used her talents to run her home and maybe she resented that about Kit. I later learned that Kit and my Dad were once lovers and perhaps she and Mom sized each other up as competition. I was welcome to come to the Manheim's house and sometimes Emily would come to mine, but not if it involved her parents, especially her mother, coming.

Still I was as close to Al and Kit as I was to my own parents, sometimes closer because I wasn't afraid to talk to them about certain things. In fact when I was younger, I sometimes called them "Uncle Al" and "Aunt Kit." (Though Emily never responded in kind to my parents. They were always "Mr. and Mrs. Glick" or after the divorce occasionally she called my father, "Sammy." So she certainly didn't have much of a bond with my parents as I did with hers.)

My shyness was a barrier in school, so Emily was my closest friend. Often times the two of us would play elaborate adventure stories that we would write based on whatever we saw: cowboys, pirates, spacemen whatever. They would be complete with props and costumes (usually stuff lying around the house). We would be partners in our adventures: Always The Lone Ranger and Tontina, or Buck Rogers and Flash Gardenia, or Robina Hood and Little John (Emily always made it clear that she was an adventurer! She was not the damsel in distress so no Wilma Deering or Maid Marian for her. We were partners or we didn't play.)

Of the two of us, she was always the more daring often suggesting the original ideas for what we would play, lead the action, and sometimes offer some ideas to keep the story going, such as sliding her mattress down the stairs, "to escape the Sheriff of Nottingham who had trapped us in the castle," a feat her mother did not particularly like. (Al said Emily inherited her bossiness from her mother and I definitely agreed.)

I was often in charge of detail, creating the worlds and dialogue, offering suggestions about what props we could use, and writing things down so we could pick up where we left off. Emily was the leader and I was the brain or to use Hollywood terms: Emily was the director and I was the screenwriter, traits that helped us in our current careers.

Our parents would often tease us about when they were going to set the wedding and my Dad often said, "Well get the matchmaker on the horn. I think we got this engagement set in stone." To which like the sweet kids we were said, "Eww no! We can't get married Emily's a girl, Max is a boy and besides we're friends! Friends don't get married!" Well hindsight and all.

Well anyway, I digress. I was already upset that Emily wasn't invited to my party and did not know any of the other kids, so I didn't really have that great of a time with all of the people around. I received some nice presents like a Crystal Radio Set my parents bought me and some other things, plus the cake was good. But there was just so much of everything! Too many people around, too much noise and loud music, too many reporters flashing cameras in my face and asking me questions. ("How do you feel about this party your Mommy and Daddy planned for you?") I just wanted to get away from it all and find Mom or Dad.

Suddenly, the fireworks went off and a sparkler banner came down that said _The Glick Follies_. The performers sang what was supposed to be the big show stopping number, "The Best Show of All." (Among my father's more endearing traits subtlety is not one of them.)

Reporters and the other guests ran to the front of GlickFair to get a better view. I also ran towards the front to find my father. As I tried to crowd around the other people looking for my Dad and getting more frantic because I couldn't find him. I pushed past people who apparently didn't notice the tiny Birthday Boy moving through them. In confusion, I held one man's hand because he was wearing the same tailored black suit as my dad, but when he looked at me, I realized that he wasn't Dad. I stepped back as a few reporters stepped forward to get closer shots. However one reporter actually plowed into me and ran me down. I gave a high pitched scream of pain as his big shoes kicked me in the face.

The music stopped and I heard my father yell, "What's that?" The reporter who plowed me down was nice enough to take my arm and help me stand. Dad pushed back several of the crowd and ran over to me. The reporters parted to let him past and Dad moved me so we could be alone. Dad knelt down and I could feel my face throb in pain and I offered a small sob. He put his hands on my face and examined me. "That looks bad, you want to go inside?" He asked. I nodded feeling my mouth bleed. My father whistled for Rosa and he told her to take me inside.

I lay inside in my bedroom with an ice pack on my face for a few hours listening to the noise outside become quieter and quieter until it finally ended. I then heard a knock on the door as my father sat by my bedside. "How you feeling, Kiddo?" Dad asked.

"Okay," I said slowly.

Dad gently removed the ice pack from my face and looked at me. "Well you look like you did a couple of rounds with Jake La Motta."

"Are they gone?" I asked.

"Are who gone?" Dad asked.

"The 'porters, and everybody," I said with tears in my eyes.

"Yeah they're gone," Dad said. "Staff's cleaning up now outside."

I started to cry feeling bad about what I was going to say. "I didn't like the party, Daddy."

"Why not didn't you get everything you wanted?" Dad said. "You got a lot of nice gifts."

"Yeah, that was nice," I said. "Thank you for the Crystal Radio."

"You're welcome," Dad said ruffling my hair and nodding at the crystal radio that was now by my bed. "You liked the cake."

"Yeah it was good," I said.

"It should be you had three pieces," Dad said. "I'll tell Edith how much you liked it." He said with a wink referring to our then cook. He turned serious. "So what didn't you like about it?"

"Emily wasn't there," I began.

"Well, your mother already told you that Emily wasn't invited," Dad said. "Besides you can't spend your whole life with one friend. You have to find the opportunity to make new friends."

I lowered my head. "I didn't like all the people there. I didn't know anybody."

"Well that's when you gotta make a point to get to know everybody and don't be so shy," Dad said. "You hide like a little turtle inside his shell and sometimes you just gotta poke your head out."

"But why do all the 'porters and cameras have to be there?" I said. "They scare me. I don't like them."

"Well they're here, because I'm famous and because I'm famous they know about you and your Ma, and they want to take pictures of you."

"But why are you famous, Daddy?" I asked.

"Well you know I own a studio," Dad said. "You know someday you're going to get that studio and you'll be famous too. So that makes me famous and people want to see me."

"But do I have to be famous?" I asked. "I don't want to be famous if people have to follow me around all the time."

Dad chuckled and gave me a hug. "It's all part of the game, Max. When you're famous, you like people following you around. It's fun getting your picture taken and showing people what you're made of. You get a real charge out of seeing your name in lights or in the credits. Sometimes you enter somewhere like a restaurant and you see all the faces turn to you and oh it's great, no better rush."

As my father continued to talk, I noticed he began to get quieter and more emotional. I

I know now that he was trying to convince himself. "Sometimes that's all you live for. You listen to the radio, just to hear your name. You check the paper just to see those two little words of your first and last name appear. When people's backs are turned, you wonder hope that it's you they're talking about. Sometimes you just count how many times your name or face has appeared in trades or in the movies and you base your whole day on whether you see it a lot or not enough. Sometimes you feel like you have to put on a show all the time. You always have to be in charge, tough, happy, satisfied, even when you're not. You try to fool everybody thinking that you're so great and powerful even when you aren't and you feel like you're the one who's the fool." I then noticed my father lower his head and he whispered. "It's like a drug. You want it, but you don't want it. Sometimes you're sick of the whole thing and want to walk away, but you can't. You can't because then you would have to stop and you can't do that. You can't stop; you just can't stop running, no matter how beat you feel."

My Dad was silent for a few minutes and I had a feeling that he wasn't really talking to me anymore. "Are you okay Daddy?" I asked holding his hand.

Dad then turned to me and smiled. "You really hated it didn't you, Kiddo?"

I nodded honestly and Dad smiled. "I tell you what. What say you and I do what I have to do sometimes at work? We'll come to a negotiation."

"What's neg-o-shay-sun?" I asked

Dad smiled. "Well 'neg-o-shay-sun' is when two people disagree about something and they talk it out, so they come to an agreement," Dad answered. "So I can't do anything about the reporters when we're in public like at a movie premiere, or a restaurant, or a studio event or something, they have to be there and as you get older you'll have to be there. But I can do something about them when you want to be alone. They won't come to the house anymore. They won't follow you to school or us on vacations and you won't have to do any public appearances that you don't want to do for now. If you feel uncomfortable about doing something, just let me know and I'll take care of it."

"Really?" I asked. "You mean it?"

"Yeah you bet, Max," Dad said. "Just stay fresh and unspoiled okay?"

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"That means that you just be yourself," Dad said. "Just be Max Glick as long as you can be." He tweaked my nose and kissed the top of my head. "Just be my little boy, always be my little boy." He stuck out his hand. "Deal?"

"Deal," I shook it and that was the beginning of when my publicity-happy father who loved to be the center of attention gave his shy son the freedom to avoid the press and stay away from the limelight whenever he wanted to. Most of the time.

Auburn Red's Notes:

The chapter title "Prince of Hollywood" is not only a reference to Hedda Hopper's description of Max Glick but is also an inside reference to Budd Schulberg's autobiography Budd Schulberg: _Moving Pictures: The Life of a Hollywood Prince_

Carter Judd was the man that Sammy caught his wife in bed with on their wedding night. It figures that Sammy would have enough pull to make sure his rival stayed a B-actor. Poverty Row Pictures were movies usually produced by companies like Republic which churned out low-budget formulaic films usually Roy Rogers or Gene Autry westerns or Rocky Jones or Commando Cody science fiction films. I'm sure MST3K had quite a lot of fun with them.

The story of Chris Glick's birth is based on relationship between Loretta Young, Clark Gable, and their daughter, Judith. (She was conceived while they filmed _Call of the Wild_ and because he was still married, Loretta claimed that she adopted Judith as a single parent. Judith was not informed of her real parentage until she was an adult, though she heard rumors throughout her childhood.)

Georgia Tann was considered the mother of modern adoption, but in truth was nothing more than a ruthless sadist. She and her associates would take babies from poor homes often by kidnapping or informing the parents that the children had died, and then later would sell them to wealthy childless families. Reportedly, Christina and Christopher Crawford were bought by Joan from Georgia Tann. Though Tann was never officially caught or charged many of her associates were and confessed to her unlawful practices.

It's just coincidence that I am writing two simultaneous fics that deal with a father/son relationship and the son's name is Max, I swear. While Max Goof from "Memories of the Dance We Shared" came pre-named, the reason I named Sammy's son, Max is because of Sammy's father and I thought that Sammy would be looking for a way to stick it to his father that he named his son for him and wanted to make a big show of how much of a "Family Man" he was. I wonder if I can squeeze in a character named "Max" in "Adult Monsters" as well. No, best leave well enough alone.

While Sammy had a brother, Israel (sometimes named Seymour in other versions) in the book, he wasn't married. Also Israel and Rosalie Goldbaum didn't know each other in the book (or if they did, they didn't have any contact with each other). I figured Rosalie would be the perfect homemaking Jewish housewife for Israel and that he would be a solid guy who would make her forget about Sammy's callousness. Sammy's mother is also still alive in the book, but has since died when Max was little. Poor lady never got to reconcile with her "Sammele."

I didn't really like Laurette Harrington and thought of portraying her as abusive, but I had already done abusive mothers for my "Minkiad Universe" fics with Jennifer Bassett-Minkus and Desiree Beaumont-Marsden and was not eager to tackle another one to repeat myself. So, I try to make it clear as possible that all of Laurette's vitriol is focused solely on Sammy and not Max. She does love Max but Max never feels emotionally connected to her like he does to his father.

The Lindbergh Baby Kidnapping was in 1937, and remember Max Glick was born in 1940, so that would probably be in the forethought of many wealthy parents and their servants.

While yes, I know a baby sleeping in their parent's bed is actually dangerous and can lead to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS), at the time not many parents knew that, so it would not have been unheard of for a parent to lay their child down in their own bed to put them to sleep. Plus as explained it shows the early signs of how Sammy needed and depended on Max more than he needed him.

Max's extreme shyness about reporters and publicity is never named but is certainly a symptom of Social Anxiety Disorder. I thought it would be interesting that the publicity-hungry Sammy Glick would have a son that would be the opposite extreme. Also, one of the Hollywood kids, I believe Mary Jennifer Selznick, daughter of actress Jennifer Jones and producer, David O. Selznick had the same feelings and would often hide from photographers when they took pictures of her parents.

I couldn't resist a reference to _Who Framed Roger Rabbit_ as it's one of my all-time favorite movies and since it is set in Hollywood in the late 1940's, it's quite conceivable that Sammy Glick and the Roger Rabbit cast may have encountered each other more than a few times.

12\. _The Glick Follies_ is a parody of _The Goldwyn Follies_ , a real-life movie musical that Samuel Goldwyn produced in an attempt to be Hollywood's answer to Florenz Ziegfield. It was universally panned much the same way the _Glick Follies_ were for many of the same reasons. (Except it came out in the '30's in an attempt to capitalize on the popular musical trend. Sammy's problem of releasing it after WWII apart from the movie itself is that it became dated.) The reviews are word-for-word descriptions of _Goldwyn Follies_ except the one that said that "they wouldn't sully their pen to describe the singing and dancing" that actually comes from the 1976 musical _At Long Last Love._

When Max is 6 years old, the Crystal Radio Set is the number one toy item. 2So it makes sense the Glicks would give the season's popular toy to their son.

The "Bad People/Good People" conversation Max and Sammy have in the Hollywood Hills and the one that Sammy and Max have by Max's bed implies that Sammy isn't always happy with himself or the things that he did to get ahead. Again, in the original book we only saw Al's side of the story and I was determined to show a more vulnerable Sammy. The idea of Sammy being addicted to fame and creating a projection of himself and feeling like he's the fool, was inspired by the Evanescence song, "Everybody's Fool" which is a perfect song for Sammy Glick IMHO and was a huge inspiration for how I wanted to portray Sammy in this fic as someone who loves his image, but is conflicted and trapped by it. ("Perfect by nature/icons of self-indulgence." Think about it the name, Sammy Glick now is "an icon of self-indulgence," a byword for a Hollywood Sleaze. He certainly is a Master of "More lies about a world/That never was and never will be.")


	4. Chapter 3: Divorce

My Father Sammy Glick by Max Glick

A What Makes Sammy Run? Fanfic

By Auburn Red

Chapter Three: Divorce

Despite my parents' constant bickering, it never occurred to me that they would ever get divorced. Every now and then one of them, usually my father, would threaten to walk out and file. But something always kept them from doing so. When I was younger and more naïve, I thought maybe deep down they loved each other. But when I became older and understood the term "marriage of convenience" I realized that was what my parent's marriage actually was.

They married for business, for money, so my grandfather and his backers could help my father own Worldwide Productions, for image, so they could hide their lovers behind a cloak of respectability, for every other reason than for love. True, they stayed married longer than they probably would have because they had a kid, and the kid probably kept them from heading for divorce courts much sooner. Maybe after I was born, it was just more "convenient" for them to stay together than to split up.

Divorce is becoming a hot button issue nowadays, that it seems old-fashioned how little it was discussed. Note: not how little it was done but how little it was discussed. I grew up in Hollywood and went to school with kids whose parents were on their second, third, fourth, fifth marriages. One girl I knew said that she spent almost a year calling her stepfather by her former stepfather's name before he noticed. In fact it was unusual for celebrity couples to stay with their first marriages: The few we knew: James and Gloria Stewart's children, Bob and Dolores Hope's kids, we envied.

Of course our parents' divorces always made the news especially if the reason was juicy like adultery (think Eddie Fisher-Debbie Reynolds-Elizabeth Taylor) or alcohol and drugs (think Bette Davis and Bill Sherry or Bette Davis and Gary Merrill). Usually, when that happened the kid was out of school for "undisclosed reasons" but we always knew the reason why: their parents had split up and the kid was taking it hard.

While the people inside Hollywood were fond of taking their marriage in front of the judge: as always we had an image to protect. Middle West America was never supposed to know that our homes were as tempestuous and as awful as theirs. In Movieland marriage was supposed to be the end of the show and after Boy Lost Girl in a series of contrivances, Boy would get back together with Girl and it would end in a marriage. (Cut and Print. The End.)

They weren't supposed to show the times afterward when Boy slept on the couch, or when an annoyed Girl would spend the weekend with her female friends,

or that they called the judge so often they were on first name basis with him. When it did show friction in the marriage, it was more often played for laughs and usually ended with the couples reconciling.

Marriage was the end, 'til death do us part, and if it was good enough for Middle America then by God it was supposed to be good enough for us. Hollywood created the image and we were supposed to live up to it, even when we couldn't.

Off the top of my head I could only think of a few movies that were around when my father made movies and that I saw growing up that was about a divorce or mentioned characters whose parents were divorced: _The Awful Truth_ (where the childless couple got back together), _The Philadelphia Story_ (where the childless couple got back together), _His Girl Friday_ (where the childless couple got back together-sense a pattern? Maybe it was easier to make a divorce comedy when kids weren't involved), _Adam's Rib_ (where the childless couple contemplated getting divorced but got back together after being on opposite sides of a case involving another child-full couple who were separated and planning to divorce, though it implied they may get back together), _The Women_ ( where the couple with one child get back together after Man-Trap is exposed for the harlot she really is), and _Miracle on 34_ _th_ _Street_ (Little Susan off-handedly mentioned her parents are divorced but in one line that you might miss if you weren't listening for it),. But they were the exceptions rather than the rule. So that was the product that was sold: Happy relationship+Happy Marriage=Happy Home and Kids.

Hollywood is finally becoming aware that not every home that they preach to is a happy one and there have been more films featuring divorces than had been around when I grew up: _Rebel Without A Cause_ (Plato's father took off thereby explaining his fatherless home and Jim and Judy's parents are the perfect types of arguing parents who probably should be divorced, but aren't), _East of Eden_ (Cathy walked out on her husband and sons and later headed a brothel), _A Streetcar Named Desire_ (Blanche mentions her husband left her for another man and Stella takes her baby and runs), _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ (Holly Golightly refuses to go back to her ex-husband), The _Parent Trap_ (well that one hearkens back to couple getting back together, but at least it mentions how difficult divorce is for kids: One of the twins, played by Hayley Mills said "It's scary how parents don't stay together anymore. Soon there will be more divorces than marriages." Well at least they're finally admitting it.)

But when I was growing up, everyone else's home was supposed to be unhappy but yours and the studios and the parents worked really hard to make it seem that way.

Real life couples were supposed to tell reporters that "conflicting schedules" kept Mom and Dad from traveling together, oh and that handsome guy that Mom was seen around with; oh he was simply a "friend." And didn't you see that cute 18-year-old bobby soxer around Dad's place the other night? She was just there for a screen test….in the middle of the night….with no cinematographer to film it. It didn't always work and when it didn't everyone knew about it. My parents were an example.

In the end, the divorce really was my father's fault. Not because of his personality or the reasons most people would suspect. After all, my mother gave as good as she got and neither one was happy with each other. No, it was because my father ended up being the reason that my mother was introduced to the man that she would leave him for: Count Stefan Von Hossenburgh.

After Dad was finished licking his wounds from the failure that was _The Glick Follies,_ he had another brainstorm: If he couldn't be Busby Berkeley, then he would be Alfred Hitchcock! (Why my father couldn't settle on just being Sammy Glick is a mystery to me).

His next idea was a romantic comedy/adventure story about a female cat burglar/jewel thief being chased by a handsome roguish cop/detective through the beautiful settings in Europe where it will be assumed that they will fall in love, get married, and she will give up her life of crime. When my father was at the height of fame, you could never keep him down for very long. If one movie panned, he just waited it out until he came up with something else (or reused something else). The movie would be called _The Scarlet Fox_ (the female cat burglar's nickname).

Two things emerged from this latest Glickscapade that led to ramifications that would make my father's personal life incredibly rocky later on. The first was his friendship between Al and Kit Sargent-Manheim hit another stumbling block. That was nothing unusual but this stumbling block would later lead Al to finally publish "The Book" that had been sitting in his closet since my father's wedding night. (probably since they first met.)

The trouble began half a world away when WWII ended and the camps were finally liberated. The news was all over of the American soldiers seeing mounds of dead Jewish bodies, people half-starved and beaten, and the gas ovens which spoke of numerous brutalities (I still get nightmares thinking about it). I remember when Dad first read about them. He paled and looked like death. He kept muttering "How could anyone do this? Monsters! Complete monsters!" Even at five years old, I knew that my father was upset about something so I walked closer to him.

Dad looked at me as if he didn't know me, but he leaned over to give me a big hug and set me on his lap. We stayed there for several minutes as I sat on Dad's silken bathrobe and he rocked me back and forth whispering Hebrew Prayers for the Dead. (Now my father barely spoke Hebrew or Yiddish. In fact he wanted as little to do with his Jewish heritage as possible. My brother and I were never even Bar Mitzvahed. Until he did that, I didn't know that he knew any. I knew something must have made him sad enough to do this).

But that was all my father ever said about the Holocaust. To him, news was news and business was business. He never let anything interfere with the most important job of his life: making movies. But for Al and Kit, this opened another world for them.

They were honest about their feelings after the camps were liberated. "At first we were shocked and grief-stricken," Kit said. "How could anyone do this to millions of innocent men, women, and children? Whole families, neighborhoods. I remembered Al and I just held each other and cried. Then we pulled Emily towards us in a family hug, grateful that we had her."

I nodded remembering Dad's reaction and Emily and my reaction later when John F. Kennedy was killed. You didn't know anyone, they weren't your relatives or your friends, but they may as well have been. You just wanted to hold the person next to you, grateful that they were there and that you could share the grief.

Al said after the sadness and the grief passed, came the anger. "I was furious! Why didn't we do more to help them? I didn't believe for one second that no one knew about it! America was supposed to be a land that people could turn to when their country didn't want them? Did you know that Roosevelt barely filled the quotas for allowing Jewish people to enter the country? While we were sitting here on our tails, people were being slaughtered by the millions most because they happened to go to a synagogue rather than a church! Kit and I decided to do something about it!"

Al and Kit donated money for various organizations, including one that helped displaced European refugees reunite with their families, particularly in the newly formed country of Israel (formerly Palestine). Some of the groups that they helped had members who were Socialists, something that would later haunt the Manheims.

Besides getting involved politically, Al and Kit were also involved creatively. While Al's anti-Fascist script finally saw the light of day and was filmed in 1942, for him and Kit that wasn't enough. They wrote a script about a family that gets separated during the Holocaust only for the family now whittled down to three of the children, because the rest had died, to be reunited in Israel where the oldest brother becomes one of the leading members of the government to create this new country.

Al and Sammy went back and forth about the script. Finally they negotiated that if Al and Kit would write the script to _The Scarlet Fox_ then Dad would finance their Holocaust script called at the time, _Frost Over Berlin_.

After _The Scarlet Fox_ had been released and met with great success from the audience and the critics, Al reminded Sammy about his promise to produce _Frost Over Berlin_ but Dad reneged. Al told me about the conversation that they had.

"I can't do this script Al," Dad said. "It's too dark, too depressing. Half the family dies? The mother and father get gassed to death?"

"It really happened to many people," Al said.

"Al, this is Hollywood, we don't do real here," My father reminded him. "Not only that but what's the thing about the American soldiers not wanting to help David, the oldest boy? You want to kick this country's teeth in?"

"I want to make them aware of their ignorance in letting the Holocaust happen," Al said. "We all need to wake up about how we let these people die!"

"I didn't let them die," Dad said. "Neither did you!"

"Many in this country did," Al practically spat. "People were being killed and we said and did nothing! Maybe we couldn't believe something like this could happen, that much in denial but it did, it did and we let it! I won't be silent anymore about it, Sammy."

"Still a Rabbi's son," Dad rolled his eyes. "That's not the only issue I have, Al.

You also have a Russian guy who helped the little girl, Anna."

"It doesn't matter that he's Russian," Al said. "He just lost his family and feels a bond with the girl so he helps her."

"Oh I get it," my father replied sarcastically. "So this guy's nationality doesn't matter, but the Americans do? Al, does the word 'Red' mean anything to you?" Already there were rumors of Communism in Hollywood long before the McCarthy Hearings.

"Sammy does the word 'union' mean anything to you," Al asked. "You won't accept it."

"No can do," Sammy said. "No want do, no care do."

"I'll take it to someone who will," Al said.

"You do that and they will say the same thing I will," Dad answered. "No one wants to see a movie about a bunch of Jews!"

"I do," Al shot back.

"Well that makes one of you," Dad said sarcastically.

They went around, but Dad still wouldn't accept it.

Al and Kit shopped around for a studio that would produce it and it was later produced by Warner's under a new name for the movie: _Time of the Young_ (since the survivors were three young children and they lived in a country that was young, Israel) also Kit and Al had to submit it under new names: Judith and Martin Simon, to get past contract requirements. Though as long standing members of the Screenwriter's Guild they didn't necessarily have to. They just had a feeling that my father would do something to stop them.

However they reluctantly changed the nationality of the indifferent soldiers to British and the helpful soldier was Polish instead. Oh and there was only an off-handed mention about the parents being gassed to death instead of being shown marching to the chambers. Despite the changes they were proud of this script. Al said, "Even if I never write another word, then I hope that _Time of the Young_ is remembered as the greatest script I ever wrote." That's how much he believed in his script.

 _Time of the Young_ was a mild success at the box office, but it did receive unanimous critical praise and would have been nominated for an Academy Award but Al and Kit were nominated for _The Scarlet Fox_ and my dad raised objections with the academy that despite them having pseudonyms they were the same people. I know my Dad: When he rejected something that had potential, and later proves to be a success he felt it was a personal burn but refused to admit it. Of course the original script to _Time of the Young_ would not be forgotten by Al, Kit, or my father.

The second thing that happened during the making of _The Scarlet Fox_ that would cause problems for my father was the arrival of Count Stefan Von Hossenburgh _. The Scarlet Fox_ was meant to be filmed in several European countries, such as Austria, Switzerland, Northern Italy, and some of the smaller ones like Belgium, Luxemburg, and Lichtenstein. To do that my father had to receive permission from the governments to film there. He needed a liaison to help him speak with the various associations, so he needed to get in touch with a royal dignitary to speak for him.

Mom was especially excited. She had met royalty and noble dignitaries many times and once when she was young appeared before the King of England. Getting the chance to meet a foreign dignitary and a royal one at that gave my mother a chance to shine in Hollywood and she used it, boy did she use it.

My mother insisted the staff stand outside to greet them, which my father said was ridiculous. "We aren't exactly Downtown Abbey," Dad said.

" _Downton_ Abbey," my mother corrected annoyed. They referred to that English Abbey that had a couple of movies that had been made involving the Long lost second daughter, Edith Crawley and first footman, Thomas Barrow (one of those unsolved disappearance stories that pop up now and again in stories and legends). The most recent one, _Dangerous Seduction_ produced by my father starred Joan Fontaine and Peter Lorre, both on loan. It was a thriller which portrayed Edith Crawley (Fontaine) as an innocent seduced by the schemes of the evil footman, Thomas (Lorre) and was murdered by him. He was also about to murder the other two daughters, Mary and Sybil (Merle Oberon and Ann Rutherford) when he met his untimely end off a cliff. (No cliffs near Downton, in reality, but hey it's Hollywood.)

"Yeah I'd been there too, remember," Dad corrected her.

"To work," my mother said. "I was there to for vacation remember. I became intimate friends with the family."

Both my parents had personal connections to the English Abbey.

My father had visited Downton in 1939, for permission to film _Dangerous Seduction_. My mother had stayed at the Abbey, recently converted to a luxury hotel, in 1946 and got acquainted with George Crawley, Earl of Grantham and his mother the Dowager Countess Mary Crawley so she considered herself an expert on the family.

Dad's earlier visit was not so friendly. He almost created an international incident that I don't think the Earl or his mother ever forgot. In fact when he asked to film _Scarlet Fox_ there, they gave him a flat refusal.

The English press didn't go into any details only that a representative for the Abbey said that "Mr. Samuel Glick had behaved abominably and his visit to the Abbey would be a brief one."

There were rumors that while scouting locations for _Dangerous_ my father had hit on Mary Crawley and she rebuffed-or specifically threw a drink in his face. My father denied it but he did say, "Hey she may have been a widowed old broad, but she was an attractive widowed old broad like one of those silent ladies like Joan Crawford or Greta Garbo who still look good."

Instead of telling my Dad where he could stick his proposal to film the _Scarlet Fox_ ,

the Earl and Dowager Countess, just politely declined saying there "Was much repair work that remained to be done after the War and the Abbey would not be suitable for your needs. However, we are acquaintances with Count Stefan Von Hossenburgh of Lichtenstein and he may be willing to accept your proposal, Mr. Glick." So, Dad thanked them and contacted Count Von Hossenburgh who accepted.

Mom however had a better sense of decorum and etiquette from her years of being a debutante and entertaining nobility, royalty, and the upper crust of American society. She

gave the two of us a crash course on how to behave showing us how we were supposed to bow very lowly and Mom was supposed to curtsy. That if he stuck out his hand, then we were supposed to take it, but not until then and only offer two fingers extended for a social hand shake.

"Does it matter which finger?" Dad asked dryly.

Mom glared at Dad. "Do you want this movie to be filmed in Europe or on a soundstage?" She asked through clenched teeth. "You are supposed to be courteous, polite, don't speak so fast. Do not initiate conversations and let him speak first. Try not to monopolize the conversation, Sammy!"

"Okay let me get this straight," Dad said his New York accent more pronounced. I could tell he was trying to rile Mom. "Don't be courteous, don't be polite, Talk fast. Initiate conversations and don't let him speak first! And monopolize the conversation. Oh and my name is Sammy."

My mother looked like she would have killed Dad right there with her bare hands. I couldn't help it, I let out a small giggle, but Mom's glare stopped it dead cold. "I should have married someone with more class than a chimpanzee!"

"Can I help it if I took one year of finishing school," Dad said sarcastically. "Count Dracula-"

"-Von Hossenburgh," Mom corrected.

"-Von Hossenpfeffer," Dad repeated. "And I are here to talk business not to daintily hold our tea cups with one pinky." He demonstrated the gesture.

"But with royalty comes with a sense of decorum and protocol that must be followed," Mom said. "These aren't your typical movie making businessmen. They aren't even men like my father whom you could win over by taking them out for drinks. These are the highest level of society, much higher than you could ever reach."

Dad glared silently at my mother. Sometimes my Mom liked to take digs at my Dad's background which was so much lower than hers.

"Mom, what do we call him?" I asked shyly wanting to make a good impression because it made my mother happy and would probably make my father happy. My dad held his hand over his mouth and mouthed 'kiss up' to me.

"I'm glad you asked, Max," Mom said. "You are to call him 'My Lord.' "

"Not my lord," Dad muttered. Again Mom glared. "I know how to act, Laurette." Dad objected. " The Downton folks didn't exactly throw me out on my ear in '39 and they didn't give me the Evil Eye when I wrote to them."

"Probably because the Dowager Countess didn't have a drink to throw in your face," Mom muttered.

Sammy glared and spoke again. "I 'My Lorded' and 'My Ladied.' I bowed. I'm not exactly fresh off the boat from the Lower East Side."

"Let's just make sure," Mom said as the three of us waited for the count's arrival.

My parents and I waited surrounded by staff while a long white stretch limo appeared. Dad and I wore tuxedos (mine were short pants) and polished black shoes. Mom was dressed in a long silver beaded gown and her red hair was tied in a chignon and a coronet circled it. The three of us stood like soldiers at attention.

The chauffeur emerged and opened the door when the Count appeared behind him. He was a tall gray-haired man but his face made him look younger. He wore a dark suit with a red banner and royal medals around his chest.

He faced us and walked slowly, "Mr. Samuel Glick, I presume," Stefan said.

My Dad had a sly smile but he bowed low the way Mom taught him. "My lord, welcome to my home." As Al pointed out many times, my Dad could imitate good manners like the best of them. The count stuck out his hand and Dad returned the two fingered handshake Mom drilled into him. He then motioned to Mom. "This is my wife, Laurette."

Mom curtseyed and looked deeply at the Count. If I were a smarter kid and paid attention to the hundreds of movies I had seen up until then, I would have recognized the signs of love at first sight between my mother and future stepfather. But alas, I was seven and those parts bored me, so it completely missed me by.

"Mrs. Glick," said Count Von Hossenburgh. "I am honored to make your acquaintance."

"As am I my lord," my mother said in a voice I had never heard her use before to my father. With my father, Mom's voice was sharp, clipped, often cold and critical. With the count, she sounded warm, soft, and welcoming.

My father waited and nodded at me, pushing me forward. "This is _our_ son," he said pointedly. He emphasized "our." Obviously, he didn't miss the signs. "Maxwell, Max for short."

Count Stefan Von Hossenburgh bent down and stuck out his hand. I bowed low and returned it. "It is good to meet you, Maxwell."

"Thank you, my lord," I returned shaking his hand like my Mom taught me.

Stefan smiled at my parents. "I wish my sons were as well-mannered as yours."

"You have sons?" I asked.

"Max," my mother said sharply. "Manners!"

"That's alright," Stefan said. "I have two sons, Christian is 10 and Adrien is 9. I think you would get along with them." Well subsequent history and experience have yet to prove Stefan's early hypothesis.

"Are they here?" I asked. I was still shy around meeting new kids but it might be nice. At the very least would make a good impression on my parents.

"No they are home in Lichtenstein," he said.

"With their mom?" I asked.

"Maxwell," my mother hissed dangerously and cleared her throat. Considering what a fanatic Mom was for manners and titles that I couldn't tell if she was offended that I asked a personal question, initiated a conversation, or was more upset that I said "their mom" instead of "their mother."

The count had a sad look in his eyes. "No, you see their mother has been deceased the past four years now."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"It is alright, Little one," the Count said. He stood up and faced my parents. "I thank you both for inviting me. I hear the Californian cuisine is not to be missed."

"Oh you bet it isn't," Dad said. "We have a meal prepared just for the occasion." He gathered, the count, my mother, and me inside GlickFair.

We ate our dinner while Stefan and Dad talked about the potential for the movie and what it would mean for the European countries. As directed I remained quiet as I ate. Mom also was quiet, constantly looking at Stefan and Dad closely. Looking back, I wonder if she was inwardly measuring them and realizing probably not for the first time that Sammy Glick did not measure up to her expectations.

"I read the script and loved it," Stefan said. "I think it is thrilling and suspenseful."

"Thanks My Lord," Dad said tipping his glass, honored as though he wrote the script himself. "I think it stands to be boffo!"

At first, Stefan looked confused but then he nodded. "Ah, I understand your Hollywood lingo. Boffo means good yes?"

"It means box office success, my lord," Dad responded.

"Well then 'boffo' it is," Stefan said with a laugh. After a pause, my Dad and my Mom let out their courtesy laughs. I did too after a second. "I have a fascination for filmmaking myself and its industry. I think also this movie will improve the outlook for these countries."

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking." Dad said. "See these countries have taken a beating because of the War and the last thing I'm sure people want to think of is countries with buildings blown apart and soldiers marching through them."

"They are beautiful countries with many wonderful places to visit," Mom interjected. "Especially yours, My lord."

"Well it takes a beautiful person to recognize beauty around them," Stefan said to my mother. Mom blushed, her face becoming red all of a sudden. Even at 7, I thought this was getting weird.

"Yeah," Dad said. He slammed his wine goblet down a bit too hard so it broke. One of the maids, Meg, reached over and wiped it off and got him another one pouring the glass with more wine. Dad continued retaining his business-like demeanor. "Well this movie will benefit your countries because people will look at the beautiful scenery, and the romance, suspense, and intrigue and think 'I want to go there on vacation.' It will do for your country what _Algiers_ did for ' _ze Casbah_.' "-Dad said imitating Charles Boyer. "Why you'll have to build a whole new castle just to accommodate all the tourists that would visit."

"Well I would hope not," Stefan said with a laugh. "May I make one casting suggestion?"

"Sure," Dad said knowing how to pay favors.

"I am a fan of Rita Royce and when I read the screenplay, I envisioned her as the Scarlet Fox," Stefan said. "With her red hair and her demeanor, she would be perfect for the character, yes? Hair almost as lovely as your wife's." Mom's face turned the color of her hair and she smiled, but couldn't resist a smug grin at my father.

Dad hesitated. I know the gossip. Rita Royce was a major star for Worldwide and Dad's ex-girlfriend. He was trying to be tactful as possible. "Yeah, that would be a good idea," Dad answered. Mom looked smug. She loved any opportunity for Dad to look foolish. "That's a good approach and she is rather talented and a lead draw, but she might be a bit too….well, advanced for the role. I sort of thought someone younger, a fresher face maybe…." Remember the 18-year-old bobby soxer with the midnight screen test? I imagine Dad was thinking of her.

My Dad was good at the art of the deal, probably wrote the book on it. Unfortunately Count Stefan Von Hossenburgh read the book. "Oh well, it was just a suggestion. I suppose if you would prefer the film to be made elsewhere…."

Dad held up a hand. "Alright, Rita Royce will star in the picture, my lor-Stef-Steve, may I call you Steve?"

"If you must," Stefan said amused probably because he gained the upper hand and also by Dad's obvious sucking up. Mom shook her head which was buried in her hands. Stefan turned to my mother. "It is alright, Mrs. Glick, you may call me Stefan or 'my lord' if you wish."

Mom looked up with a radiant smile. "Stefan will do, and since we are being so informal I must insist that you call me Laurette. 'Mrs. Glick' makes me feel like an old woman 'fresh off the boat from 'the Lower East Side' " My mother quoted my Dad's words and Dad made a face at her like he was inwardly mocking her.

"And call me Sammy here," Dad said waving his hands trying to get their attention. He whistled and waved his hands. "Remember Steve, reason you're here?"

Stefan turned to my father and cleared his throat. "Oh of course, Mr. Gli-Sammy. I think that we will be good friends. "Another hypothesis that has yet to be proven by history or experience.

After Stefan returned to Lichtenstein, it was simply a matter of business as usual. It took a couple of months but he sent a letter saying that filming in Luxembourg, Northern Italy, Switzerland, and Austria and of course Lichtenstein were a go.

My Dad normally wouldn't have minded such a trip because he liked to go on location, to spot potential places to shoot. (This was how much he thought of his job: He never visited the touristy places. Never stopped to take an actual vacation, just always looked at potential places to meet people, schmooze, and film. Sometimes when we would visit a place, I would catch him putting his fingers in a square as if he was envisioning looking through a camera at what he saw before him. Movie making was his whole life. Anything else even time off was incidental to that process.) But besides feeling competition for his wife's affections, he was feeling competition at work.

"I'm juggling like a hundred different projects at once," Dad sighed. "So I know that

Larry Ross would be perfect for the job." Larry Ross at the time was one of Dad's vice-presidents and was equally as ambitious and conceited as Dad. However, his approach was different: While Dad ran full speed ahead over everyone else: moved fast, schemed, pushed his way ahead, Ross worked slower more calculating. Dad could play the suck up for so long before he finally cracked and made his move. Ross could play it for decades, so you wouldn't even notice. Dad was like a gunshot that murdered someone right away, but Ross was more like a slow moving poison that went through your system until it destroyed you from the inside. Dad was somewhat onto Ross, having schemed himself to the top and he had no intention of being thrown down when he was at the height, so when he sent Ross to Europe, he did it to get rid of him at least for a little while.

"Of course Mr. Glick, I would love to assist this upcoming masterpiece," Ross said.

"Yeah I'd bet you would, Kid," Dad said very sarcastically.

Mom had also received a letter from an old sorority friend of hers, Genevieve Dubois who invited her to spend some time in Switzerland and the South of France. "It sounds like a wonderful opportunity and if you like, I could go off to the filming of _The Scarlet Fox_ and report how things are going." It was unusual for Mom to volunteer her services to help Dad with movie making, she didn't really care about it. But Dad was so busy and overwhelmed at work that he didn't suspect anything was off about it.

"Sure go ahead," he said with a pencil in his mouth making rewrites on a script and barely paying attention. "Have fun, Laurie."

Of course I was too young to catch on either until the later scandal that erupted, but I did think it was odd that Mom didn't want me coming long. Sometimes she liked taking me on vacations so I could experience "culture and real life, not behind a movie screen."

She turned to me and said, "You're still in school now and maybe some other time. But I will send you plenty of air kisses." This is what she always said when she went on vacations by herself.

"I'll send you plenty of air kisses too Mom," I said giving her a kiss as she left.

"Couldn't have written a better line myself," Dad said but his eyes were on the script so I wasn't sure if Dad was referring to what he was reading or mine and Mom's conversation.

After Ross and Mom left, Dad acted like he was Superman, you know faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive. He spent almost all of his time at work, jumping from one film to another never staying with one very long. He would come home, his arms full of papers and would be constantly signing something, reading scripts, and talking on the phone usually barking orders at someone.

Often times he would work until dawn and I got ready for school. He would still be constantly on a working high, but his eyes shone and he would be constantly muttering to himself. He barely ate anything in front of him, unless it was something that he could hold while he worked.

It was clear that he was exhausted, but sleep could not stop him. Not the great Sammy Glick. He did not sleep unless he completely dropped and he would be sprawled on the couch, papers flying all around him. I would then unlace his shoes and place them on the floor, place slippers on his feet, and wrap the ornamental blanket around him. He would sometimes curl the blanket tighter around him and move to the side of the couch like a small child shifting in his sleep.

Sometimes I begged him to stop, just to hang out with me and stop working. Sometimes the two of us would swim in the pool and have races, a "just us guys" thing, but since he was working like crazy, we stopped swimming.

I asked Dad to go swimming with me. But he looked up at me distracted and say, "No, I can't why don't you go play with Emily and take Rosa with you so she could watch you two? You can go to the park or something, my treat." He handed me a $20.00 bill. Emily's parents were in Europe working on _The Scarlet Fox_ and fine tuning _Time of The Young_ , so we were both parentless during this time and often had servants watching us so it would be me and Emily with either Rosa or Stella, the Manheim's housekeeper.

Even though I had school, studying, homework, and fun activities with Emily to distract me, my mind was never completely off my Dad. I sometimes looked in the direction of the mansion wondering how he was doing and beginning to worry about him, a life-long habit that I never outgrew. He was working himself into exhaustion trying to beat everyone else to the ground. But I was afraid the only person who was going to get beaten was him.

Dad and I received many letters from Mom saying that Europe was lovely and filming was going smoothly. She never sent photographs except the occasional postcard, but she did send me some nice souvenirs like some plaques, and little daggers. Of course she always enclosed her letters with air kisses.

She never wrote much to Dad except a few times and when she did, Dad never showed them to me. He just said, "She wrote 'Having a good time, glad you're not here.' " I was unconvinced and Dad ruffled my hair. "Stop worrying and fussing over everything so much. Everything's okay over there."

My Grandfather Harrington's death made everything change between my parents. My Mom was scheduled to return in August, when _The Scarlet Fox_ filming had wrapped.

but his death made her delay in her return until September. The news shook Dad so much that he was able to break from his work-driven momentum long enough to speak to her on the phone.

He sounded quiet and tearful as he talked to her on the phone. "I'm sorry, so how did it happen…Oh, well at least he went quickly….Are you okay, Laurie? Do you need me to come there?...Uh, because I'm your husband and I should be with my wife at her father's funeral?...Come on, Laurette don't be like that, I know I haven't been the best husband to you, but hey you haven't exactly been the best of wives, you have to admit that but we're still married and there are things…..Fine, do you want Max to be there?...Alright, well he's here do you want to talk to him?" He motioned me forward and handed the phone to me.

"Hello Max," Mom's voice said over the phone. She sounded tired.

"Hi Mom," I said. "Are you okay?"

"Just a little sad and tired," Mom said. "I miss your Grandfather."

"I'm sorry, Mom," I said.

"Don't be," Mom said. "Are you being good for your father?"

"Yes, I am," I replied. We talked a little more but Mom said. "I'm going to have to hang up soon, could you please give the phone back to your father?"

"Okay Mom," I said. "When are you coming back?"

"Not for a little while longer, Darling," Mom said. "I have some paperwork and things to arrange, but I will be there before you know it. Sending plenty of air kisses." She blew me kisses over the phone.

"Sending you plenty of air kisses, Mom," I said blowing kisses back to her. We said good-bye and I handed the phone back to Dad. Dad said good-bye and hung up.

I either wasn't paying attention to the gossip surrounding my mother in Europe or chose to ignore it, because I did not know that my parents were divorced until Buddy Callahan Jr. teased me about it in school. You have to understand us Hollywood Kids. We knew everything about each other's parents and we weren't afraid to use it. We never resorted to the common insults like "My dad could beat up your dad" or "Your mom is so fat/ugly…." Not us. No, our insults were along the lines of "Your dad's last three movies bombed!" or "Your mom is off the Box Office Star List, so there!" One thing to be said about us, we were certainly creative in our schoolyard taunting.

Well Buddy "B.J." Callahan Jr. was one of those kids who was bigger both in height and weight than other kids, and he was not afraid to be a bully about it especially to a shy skinny Jewish kid like me. His father was Buddy Callahan one half of a comedy team comprised of him and Joey Levinson. The duo had done some funny comedy films, but were currently in the process of ending the team, plus their last movies weren't doing so well, so Buddy Jr. was ready to taunt anyone else whose family was having a worse time than his.

Emily and I walked by as B.J. Callahan threw a ball that hit me on the back of the head. "Ignore him," Emily whispered as we walked past him.

"Hey Glick," B.J. Callahan yelled. "Your Dad's a loser! He made _The Glick Follies_ , what a bomb!"

I glared at B.J. steamed while he taunted _The Glick Follies_ making fun of the songs. I interrupted. "Well your Dad made _Drop the Bomb_! What a great name!" In those "young and carefree" days, it was okay to make a comedy film about bombs dropping during the War before we found out about the real effects of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and before black comedy did it better with _Dr. Strangelove_.

B.J. Callahan pushed himself in front of me and said. "Yeah, well at least people like my Dad!"

Now normally, I was a shy kid who avoided fights. But one thing that could get me to fight was to insult my Dad. Not that my Dad didn't deserve it, but I was a kid who believed their dad could do no wrong, plus family was family. I threw my books down as Emily held me back but I pushed her arm off. "What did you say?"

I demanded.

"No one likes your Dad, Glick," B.J. said. "Not even your Mom likes him! That's why they're getting divorced!"

I jumped on B.J. and even though he was bigger than me, he must have been surprised to see me jump him because he fell over flat. "You take it back!"

"No," B.J. said getting a few punches in. Like I said, he was bigger but I was fast and quick and was able to put up a good fight. "It's in the morning paper, Stupid! Your mom divorced your dad in Reno!"

I was about to argue again and hit him again when the principal pulled us up and broke up the fight.

My Mom was still out and my dad couldn't come to pick me up, so Rosa arrived. She tutted a few times and asked me what happened. I told her about the fight and about B.J. Callahan saying my parents were getting divorced.

Rosa drove and was quiet. "Is it true, Rosa?" I asked. "Are my parents getting divorced?"

"You'd better ask your Papa, El Nino," Rosa answered which was her nickname for me.

When we entered the house, my father was on the phone arguing with Charles Stein, his lawyer. "So, if Laurette pulls the Harrington money out, I still own Worldwide right?...

…. Oh good, thank God for that! Now how much does she want?...That much, from me? Are you kidding?...Her family's worth more than I am, the broad should be paying me!...We still keep the house right?...What do you mean, what do I mean we, I meant Max and me…Well yes Max is gonna live with me, who else would he…The hell she is…..No, no, she can go straight to Hell!...I don't care, Jerry, I am not giving up my son!" He threw the phone down and kicked it with a guttural scream.

Dad walked straight towards his liquor cabinet and grabbed a bourbon before he looked at me. I shook my head realizing that not only were B.J.'s insults true but my father just confirmed it. Tears filled my eyes as I ran to my bedroom with Dad calling "Max" after me. I flopped on the bed and cried.

A few hours later, my Dad gently knocked on the door. "Is it safe to come in?" His voice dryly asked.

"Okay," I said sniffling.

My Dad opened the door and sat on my bed rubbing my back. "Rosa told me you had a fight defending my honor."

"This kid said that no one liked you," I sniffled. "Not even Mom."

"Well thanks for the defense," Dad said. "But you fight with your fists, all you do is prove to the other guy that you're just some street punk. You have to fight smarter than they are." It wasn't the first time that Dad lectured me about "fighting smarter." He always believed that a person could get more accomplished if they used their brain and mouth during a fight to talk the other guy down than fighting with their fists. Probably no doubt learned from personal experience in his street rows on Rivington, though I did not know that at the time.

But I didn't want to talk about the fight. I had more important things on my mind.

"How come you didn't tell me that you and Mom are getting divorced?" I asked.

Dad bristled. "Because _I_ only found out this morning when I read the paper. See your Mom took a little side trip to Reno and filed there. I've been talking to Charley on the phone ever since to figure everything out myself."

"Why?" I asked. "I mean you two always fight but-"

"-Well you really wanna know?" Dad asked. I hesitated but I nodded so Dad continued. "Your Mom has a 'friend.' "

"You and Mom have lots of 'friends'," I quoted and I think Dad realized for the first time how aware I was of my parents' marriage and their problems.

"Yeah but this 'friend' is different," Dad said. "She told me so in those letters that I'd been trying to keep you from reading. She is in love with him and wants to marry him. I've been bustin' my tail trying to keep you from the gossip but they've been seen around Europe together a lot. They're in quite a few magazines over there."

"It's that count guy, isn't it, Stefan," I asked. Maybe I absorbed more from the boring mushy romantic parts from movies than I did to figure it out right away.

"Yeah your Mom wants the things I can never give her, a castle, a title, a royal pedigree," Dad said sarcastically.

"So she's not coming back at all?" I asked sadly. How could Mom not at least come home to say good-bye to her son?

"No, we still have some things to settle, money, personal stuff, and of course-" He motioned at me. "-You." He stopped. "Your mom wants you to live with her and I want you to live with me."

"You know what I want?" I said.

"What?" Dad asked.

"I want everything to be the way it was," I said. "If I were real good, do you think she'd stay?"

Dad hugged me fiercely. "Oh Max, it's got nothing to do with you! You know your Mom and I hadn't been happy. We haven't been happy since we got married and I caught-

well I picked a fight with her on our wedding night and we've been miserable ever since. I guess we kinda saw each other for who we really were and couldn't get past that.

I guess our 'friends' were just ways of keeping ourselves happy even if we couldn't make each other happy."

"So you want me and Mom wants me?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's how it is," Dad said.

"Do I have to decide now?" I asked.

"No, take your time," Dad answered.

"Would you be okay with whatever I decide," I asked.

"I'd get upset, but I'd understand, Kiddo," he said. "But, I really would want you to stay with me."

"So would Mom," I answered. Dad didn't say anything but let me cry on his shoulder.

I am not going to go into too many excruciating details about the divorce mostly because they have been repeated so often. Someone wrote a book about the Glick divorce and there has been a fictionalized play version of it called _Love Doesn't Live Here_ (I hear Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward might play the fictitious versions of my folks in the movie.) Just that it was a lot of accusations and mudslinging against each other. Mom would accuse Dad of infidelity then he would turn around and accuse her of the same thing. They would accuse each other of reckless spending, being physically violent, just about everything except serial murder. It was ugly and during that time the names "Sammy Glick" and "Laurette Harrington" were all over the headlines. It was an ugly mess all around and frankly I don't think either was really a victim in it, both Mom and Dad had over a decade of mud to sling and they gladly slung it.

The only decent thing that my parents did during the divorce is that they agreed (with their attorneys present of course) that whoever I chose to live with would be my decision and that they would live with it and wouldn't challenge the outcome. I suppose they didn't want to drag any custody issues out any longer than they had to.

Of course that didn't stop them from trying to bribe me. One day Dad, Mom, and Stefan talked to me with their attorneys. Dad promised me my own private stock account (placed in a trust fund) for Worldwide. "You'll be the wealthiest kid under 10!" He vowed. He promised to take me to La Jolla so I can learn to ride horses and that we would get a vacation home in Lake Arrowhead. "We'll take a real vacation, Kiddo. Not one of those work deals. We'll really get away from it all, go swimming, sailing, whatever you want." Charley Stein wrote something down staying out of the conversation.

Mom saw his bid and raised it by 20. She and Stefan showed me pictures of their home in Lichtenstein, well not home castle. "It's beautiful darling," Mom said. "It makes this place-" She nodded at the Beverly Hills mansion that had once been hers. "-look like shack, a hovel. We also have this-" She showed me pictures of art museums and symphonies. "Stefan, and now I, are on the Committees of various arts and cultural centers. Just think how many concerts and gallery openings in which you will attend."

I couldn't help it. I was impressed whistling at the big fancy home with all of the great furniture and especially at the museums and concerts. Mom also showed me the library which was bigger than our living room in Bel-Air. "Wow!" I said. Mom smiled knowing how much I loved to read.

Dad rolled his eyes and turned to the bar and poured himself a drink.

"Tell him about the stables, Liebschen," Stefan said.

"Already he's calling her 'leave-shin'," Dad muttered jealously. "Whatever that means." He handed drinks to Jerry and Stefan and Mom's attorney, Maurice Lattimer.

Mom and Stefan ignored him as Mom flipped open the book. I saw a stable with plenty of horses. "You think that La Jolla would be nice? How would you like your own horse? Which one would you like?"

"Wow," I said. I couldn't resist. I looked at the stable picture closely as if examining the horses in person. I saw a brown one with a white blaze on his forehead that kind of stood away from the others. He seemed a bit shy as he tried to distance himself from the others wanting to be alone. I didn't blame him. "That one," I said.

"Excellent choice," Stefan said. "We call him Hamlet, because he is a bit shy and on the indecisive side about where he wants to go. He should be easy for you to train him."

"This is great," I said amazed.

Mom looked smug as she turned to Dad. Dad didn't look at her. His back was turned as he drank slowly. I couldn't see his face, but he seemed sad. "Now what do you have?"

Dad drank quietly for a second. "Nothing."

I was stunned. Charley also looked surprised as though Dad hadn't discussed this possibility with him. I was sure Dad was going to promise me something else to raise Mom's bet. "What?" I asked.

Dad looked at me and Mom. "I said Nothing. Too rich for my blood." He held up his hands as though he were folding in a poker game.

This surprised me. It wasn't like my father to give up so easily. "You don't want me to live with you, Dad?"

Dad shook his head. "More than anything, Kiddo. But your mother can give you things I can't. All I can give you is this." He nodded around the house. "The home that you were born in and brought up in. She can give you a new exciting life, all I can give you is the life you already know."

"Oh brother," my mother rolled her eyes. "You know what this is, Max? This is the old 'Sammy Glick-Feel-Sorry-For-Me' Routine." She stood up as Stefan and Mr. Lattimer held Mom down.

"Mrs- Miss Harrington, please," Mr. Lattimer said. "Calm down."

"I will not," Mom interrupted. "Sammy Glick has played with people's emotions one too many times and this time I am calling his bluff! Max, there is a reason your father is so good at operating a movie studio! He can jerk a tear that would put the Barrymores to shame!"

"Laurette, you have no reason to believe me, but I'm on the level," Dad said. To this day I don't know if he was or he wasn't. Maybe, he thought he could play with my emotions but maybe he also considered for a few minutes what his life would be like without his son. "Why should you stay with your Old Man? If you want to go with them go."

Mom sat on the couch with Stefan. The two of them looked at the pictures of Stefan's castle, their heads touching each other. Mom looked upset, but Stefan whispered something in her ear and kissed her temple. She smiled a bit and offered a small giggle. I thumbed through the photo album. Many of the pictures showed Stefan and his sons, two tall blond athletic looking boys. I could already see Mom fitting in their family circle and pictured in my head, newer pictures with Mom standing by Stefan's side behind the boys.

I looked from them to Dad. Dad looked lost and forlorn in his own house. I just couldn't help but think that even though we were all in the room, as far as Dad was concerned, he was by himself.

I looked from my mother to my father. "I don't know," I said. "I can't make my mind up yet."

"Well you will have to decide soon, son," Charley said. "The final custody hearing is in two weeks. If you don't make up your mind then, a judge will make it for you."

"-And you will have to appear before him," Mr. Lattimer agreed.

My mouth felt dry at the thought of appearing before a judge, reporters, and my parents having to explain in detail why I want to live with one over the other. It was not a pleasant thought and I inwardly panicked picturing a million eyes staring at me waiting for my answer.

I don't care how friendly a divorce is, no parents should ever force their child to choose between them and no parent should force their child to defend their position in open court. It's like they are asking the kid to verbally bash the other parent in public, trying to prove that they love one and why they don't love the other.

My testimony was a nightmare. _Variety_ and the other trades had pictures of a very pale sad-eyed kid sitting on top of a phone book so he could be at face level with the microphone. My mind whirled around as I saw all the people looking at me. I felt like I was going to throw up or faint. Part of me hoped that this was a bad dream from which I would wake up. I could barely squeak out, "I do," when the bailiff asked if I would tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me God.

Dad whispered something frantically to Charley and Charley stood. I sighed with relief when Charley said, "Your honor the council wishes for you to consult with the boy, Maxwell Glick, in private."

"On what grounds?" said Judge Harper, an older man who looked like he could be somebody's grandfather. He looked like Walter Brennan or somebody who specialized in playing kind old men.

"Well Master Glick may be uncomfortable speaking with this audience around him, your honor," Charley said. "He does not like to be surrounded by people."

Judge Harper looked down on me. "Would you like to speak to me in private in my chambers, son?" I nodded.

"Will the opposing council agree to this suggestion?" Judge Harper asked Mr. Lattimer. Mom at first shook her head and glared at Dad. Maybe she thought he was putting one over on the judge by portraying himself as the more concerned parent. But, Mr. Lattimer nodded and they whispered to each other in private conference. "We agree, Your Honor."

Judge Harper then walked off his bench and then approached me. "Alright, I call for a fifteen minute recess while I consult with the bo-uh the defendant." He banged his gavel and walked off the bench and motioned me forward to join him in his chambers.

Judge Harper was a very nice old guy. He suspected that the publicity and the news was too much for me and he spoke kindly to me right away. "Would you like something to drink, Max?"

"I would like a glass of water please, your honor," I said. He got a drink from the sink and handed me the glass. I gulped it down before we talked.

"I have seen this many times, Max," the judge said. "Sometimes I don't like it any better than the kids do. I know you want your family to stay together, but if parents don't get along sometimes it's better for them to be apart."

"I know," I said. "I thought a lot about it and I don't want Mom and Dad yelling all the time and saying nasty things about each other. Mom seems really happy with Stefan-"

"-Your future stepfather," he said.

I nodded. "He seems really nice and Dad, I don't know, maybe he'll be much happier if he's not fighting with Mom either."

"This must be a hard decision for you then to decide with whom you want to live," Judge Harper said.

I looked at the water glass. "No, I already know who I want to live with."

"Then what's the matter?" The judge asked.

"I don't know how to say it," I said with tears in my eyes. "I don't want them hating me! Do you think that they'll hate me if I told them?"

"Max, listen to me," the judge said. I noticed his clear blue eyes twinkled. He looked like he could play Santa Claus in a Christmas picture. "They're your parents and you know them better than I do, but if they love you, they really love you, then they could never hate you. Your parents are a piece of work and I wish this divorce was a lot easier for you. I know you didn't want to hear anything about what they did to each other."

I shook my head. I was a witness to some of it, but the accusations just made them seem worse. Judge Harper continued. "There may be some hurt feelings, but over time it will pass. I'm sure your parents love you very much."

I nodded. "Then I know who I want to live with-with whom I want to live." I corrected myself quoting the judge's diction. He smiled and chuckled at my precocious use of proper grammar.

The judge led me out of the conference room and told me to sit in the witness box. I sat next to Rosa as the judge said. "First Mr. Glick and Miss Harrington, I would like to congratulate you both on the son that you have raised. He is a very articulate intelligent boy who is wise beyond his years."

"Thank you, your honor," my parents said in unison. They looked at each other surprised that they talked at once.

"Now I would like to say that it is because of the influence of his parents but considering what I have seen of your behavior, I will instead say it is despite them," the judge said sharply. "Mr. Glick, Miss Harrington you have both behaved abominably throughout this divorce process making one kind of accusation, or another. It is not enough for you to gain possession in the proceedings, you have to obliterate and annihilate the other party and that is not fair, not to either of you but to your son! It does not create a stable home nor environment for him. In fact if it were up to me, I would not put your son in either of your guardianship and would look elsewhere for someone to be his legal guardian. This place, Hollywood, does this to people! It turns them against each other and leaves others to pick up the pieces."

"Thankfully it is not up to me and as agreed by both parties, the decision is entirely up to your son, Maxwell," Judge Harper paused. "Based on his decision, I award primary custody of the boy, Maxwell Glick to his father, Samuel Glick." My father sighed and looked skyward then gave a whoop of delight. "Miss Harrington, you agreed in writing and verbally that you would not challenge the custody arrangement, is this still your intention?"

My mother looked upset and she glared for a second at Dad. I thought she would say no, but I wasn't going to change my mind. My mind was made up a long time ago. "Yes it is, your honor. I will accept the decision of the court."

"Very well Miss Harrington, you will have visitation rights which will be agreed by both parties. Case dismissed," the judge banged his gavel and that was that.

The last time I saw my Mom at the Glick mansion, they were still working out our Visitation Schedule. Dad looked at the calendar. "So he leaves on June 1 and comes back August 30, that gives him two weeks to get ready for school."

"I also want two weeks for Christmas," Mom said. "He should have the opportunity to see a European Christmas with snow, Christmas trees, St. Nicholas-"

"-But I want him for Hanukkah," Dad objected.

"That's a movable holiday," Mom argued. "Do you think I'm going to change it every year for a holiday that you don't even celebrate? When was the last time this house had a menorah, Sammy?"

"Fine," Dad said through clenched teeth. "Saves me the trouble of getting a tree!" He put that on the calendar. "That's it, I guess." He handed her the papers. "I'll make sure that Charley gets us both copies."

Mom nodded as she and Stefan stood up. Mom reached into her purse and gave him a ring of keys for the house. "Here, don't worry. I didn't make duplicates. They're yours now," she said.

Dad took the keys from my Mom and looked longingly at them. "You know Laurette, despite everything I never stopped-" He couldn't finish the sentence.

Mom smiled. "You know that's funny, Sammy." She said sharply. "I never started!"

Mom leaned down to me. "Are you mad at me, Mom for choosing to live with Dad?"

Mom smiled. "Of course not, darling. You know that they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. So our time together will be that much sweeter and of course I am not going to get married without my ring bearer."

"I love you Mom." I said as I hugged her.

"I love you too, Max," she said. We blew each other air kisses as she let me go.

"We had better go, Laurette," Stefan said.

Laurette nodded. "Good-bye Darling," she said.

"Good-bye Mom," I answered.

She glared at Dad. "Good-bye, Sammy. You had better take good care of my son."

"I will," Dad said. "Good-bye Laurie, Steve." He held the door open for them as my mother and soon-to-be-stepfather exited the door. They were almost outside when my Dad said, "Oh and Steve, one more thing. If your wife gets lost on your wedding night, you may want to check your bedroom. Also, you may want to avoid inviting any young actors to the wedding, you know just in case." My Mom's mouth opened in anger and embarrassment and Stefan just looked confused as my Dad slammed the door on them.

Dad entered my room that night as I listened to my Crystal Radio Set. "Clearly you are happy with your decision," he said sarcastically. "You have certainly made the right choice."

"I know, it's just….I miss Mom," I said.

I thought at first Dad was going to laugh or say something sarcastic about her, but instead he said. "You know something between you and me." He held me close and whispered in my ear. "I miss her too."

He pulled away and said. "You know I honestly…I'm surprised that you chose to live with me. I mean I'm happy, but surprised. If it were me, I'd have taken the castle and said 'The hell with the Old Man, just make me a knight or a prince!' It must have taken a lot of thought up there in court."

I shook my head. "No, I decided before the trial."

Dad was confused. "Then why did you go through that? I thought you didn't like that public stuff."

"I don't," I said. "But I wasn't sure how to say it without hurting Mom's feelings. I thought she would be mad at you and think you made me say it, or be mad at me, but she wouldn't be mad at the judge."

"Well it worked, she wasn't," Dad said. "But I gotta know, why me? What made you decide to live with me?"

I sighed. "It was that day when they were showing me the pictures of Stefan's house. I thought that Mom was going to have Stefan, and Stefan's kids and she didn't need me as much."

"You thought I did?" Dad asked.

"I realized that you were going to be alone," I said.

Dad laughed bitterly. "Me, Sammy Glick alone? Kid, I have hundreds of people working under me! I'm surrounded by reporters, employees, and the public! Everyone knows me whether I enter the Brown Derby, walk down Rodeo, hit all the nightspots. There isn't a soul in this town who doesn't know Sammy Glick! Now, that your Mom's gone I can have some beautiful women! Who knows, maybe I'll get you a new stepmom! Nah, why go through that again? The farthest thing I am is alone. Nope, no loneliness for Sammy."

I looked seriously at my father. "But you'd live in this big house by yourself and you wouldn't have anyone to talk to and I thought that you would be sad."

The smile was less convincing. "Really you thought that about me and you stayed with me, because you were worried I'd be sad and lonely?"

I nodded quietly and started to cry a little bit so Dad pulled me closer to him. "Hey I remember this story that the rabbis talked about. Now, I don't remember all these stories so good, but this one kind of sticks right now you know? Well there was this old dame, Naomi and she and her husband and sons moved from Israel to this other country and the boys married these local gals, Ruth and I don't remember the other broad's name.

But times were tough, you see Naomi's husband died and the sons died so that just left these three ladies.

Well Naomi realized 'Hey, I don't have any reason to stick around so I'm going back home.' Well Ruth and what's-her-name were upset and wanted to go with her, but Naomi said, 'No come on girls think about it. You're leaving your folks, brothers, and sisters! You won't know anyone there. You stay here.'

The other girl agreed but Ruth said, 'Look you're like a mother to me so wherever you're going I'm going, wherever you're going to live I'm going to live-"

"-Thy people shall be my people," I quoted. "Thy God shall be my god and where thou die, I shall die." My father looked confused. "I read the story of Ruth and Naomi a while ago."

"Yeah well that's it," Dad said as he hugged me. "No matter your reasons, Kiddo, thanks for staying with me." He kissed me good-night and tucked me into bed.

Auburn Red's Notes:

While many believe that people stayed married longer from the '30's-'60's,

Hollywood couples must not have received the message. If you read many of the older Hollywood figures, many of them did have several failed marriages and divorces behind them so it was beyond unheard of at the time. They just put more of an image in front than adhering that there were unhappy marriages in Tinsel Town

The _Scarlet Fox_ shares many intended similarities to Hitchcock's caper films like _To Catch a Thief_ and others. Sammy Glick only steals from the best.

While the first films about the Holocaust that spoke of the realities of the camps were documentaries, the first Narrative Hollywood film about it, was _The Stranger_ (1946) directed by Orson Welles.

The plot for _Time of the Young_ is very similar to the 1978 miniseries _Holocaust_ one of my all-time favorite films on the subject. Come to think about it, there are some unintended similarities to _Game of Thrones_ (especially about the survivors being siblings and the oldest becomes part of leading Israel.)

The conversation "Nobody wants to see a movie about Jews/I do" is lifted from the movie _Chaplin_ (1992) starring Robert Downey Jr. in which Chaplin and his brother, Sid, have a similar argument during the making of _The Great Dictator_ (Sid: "No one wants to see a movie about Adolf 'Fucking' Hitler!" Chaplin: "I do!")

Sammy and Laurette referring to Downton Abbey is NOT an anachronism. As many readers of my fanfics know, I love to give shout-outs to other things including my fics. I love imagining them existing in the same universe, so my _Downton Abbey/The Tempest_ fanfic, _Their Midnight Revels_ exists in the world of _My Father Sammy Glick_. Of course George, the Earl of Grantham is the little baby in the final seasons of _Downton_ and the Dowager Countess, Mary is Mary, the eldest daughter. As to what happened to Edith and Thomas and why their disappearance is such a mystery that it warrants "a couple of Hollywood films" well read _Their Midnight Revels_ to find out. I couldn't resist the irony of a person projected as a heel like Sammy projecting another seemingly villainous character like Thomas as a heel. (When in _Revels_ just like in _My Father_ things are much more complex than we believe)

Besides the Hollywood-ized cliffs at Downton there is another intended goof in the description of the film _Dangerous Seduction_ that fans of _Downton Abbey_ will catch. See if you can guess what it is. Hint: it has something to do with casting.

When Sammy refers to Mary Crawley as an "attractive widowed old broad" remember considering Sammy was born in the early 19-teens and Mary was about 20 at the same time, in the first season she's considerably older than him. So, she's about 44 compared to Sammy's approximately 24 when they meet. So first Jessica Rabbit and then Mary Crawley, two women from other sources with whom Sammy Glick flirted.

The relationship between Laurette and Count Stefan Von Hossenburgh is somewhat based on the romances between Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier of Monaco as well as slightly Jacqueline Kennedy and Aristotle Onassis. I guessed it would take an Old World, upper crust man with a title to make Laurette leave Sammy.

The fictional team of Callahan-Levinson are a composite of real life comedy teams like Abbot and Costello, Laurel and Hardy, and Martin and Lewis. The film that they make _Drop the Bomb_ is similar to the Laurel and Hardy film, _The Big Noise_ which also featured description of the atom bomb.

The fight that Max and B.J. Callahan had is based on a real-life schoolyard fight between Mike Ovitz's son and the son of Alan Zweibel, screenwriter for _North_ (which is a movie, I confess, my family and I actually like) Ovitz's son: Your Dad wrote _North!_ Zweibel's son: Yeah well people like my Dad!

Max isn't the only one who didn't want to go into "excruciating details" about the Glick divorce. I had written a great deal about divorce proceedings and child custody battles in my fic, _Lives of Genius_ (including a whole chapter devoted the custody battle) and didn't want to write it again so the custody battle gets very short mention in the story.

BTW, the "other girl" in the Ruth and Naomi story is named Orpah.


	5. Chapter 4: Christopher

My Father Sammy Glick By Max Glick

A What Makes Sammy Run? Fanfic

By Auburn Red

Chapter Four: Christopher

I was unaware of my father's financial problems after the divorce and disinheritance for some time. He continued to spend money like water. He bought only tailored clothes ate at the finest restaurants, and since his divorce, was seen entertaining the most beautiful ladies.

If occasionally he received a notice saying that he had exceeded his charge limit or an unpaid bill, he just shoved in a drawer or ripped it in two ignoring it for a later date, which would never come. Things seemed to go as normal, until my father's financial state forced him to cut the servant staff in half.

I was sad to see many of them go, after all quite a few of them had worked for GlickFair since I was born or at least very young, but none touched me more than when Rosa Gutierrez was let go. If I cried when my mother left, I sobbed when she left.

I supposed it made sense, the bond that I felt for Rosa. Since my mother was not a very loving person, Rosa filled that void in my life. She was always encouraging, loving, and maternal. She cheered me up when I had a nightmare or was angry with my parents. She provided support when I was worried about schoolwork. She lectured me if I misbehaved or talked back. Sometimes as a joke calling me, "El Nino," like the weather pattern, if I caused trouble. It later became her term of endearment for me.

After my parent's divorce, I sort of half-imagined my dad saying something like "Rosie, I never realized how beautiful you are" and asking her to go out with him eventually leading to a marriage between my actual father and surrogate mother. (Too many movies again). But my father was nothing but a polite boss to her and she never looked at my dad in anyway, but as an employer. However, he did give Rosa a double bonus before she left saying, "This is a thank you for looking after my boy."

She was the closest thing to a mother I ever had and I felt like once again a mother was leaving me. I asked why Dad had to let her go and promised that I would pay her my allowance if she would stay. She smiled and said, "El Nino, even if your Papa could afford to allow me to stay on, I wouldn't."

"Why not," I whined. "Don't you love me?"

"Of course I do," Rosa said. "But you are getting far too old to need a nanny. You need to start looking after yourself."

"Where are you going to go?" I asked hugging her tightly.

"I'm going to live with my sister's family in San Diego," she said. "I will look after her children while she and her husband work."

"Can't I come with you?" I asked through gasping sobs.

"Of course not," Rosa said. She nodded at Dad. "You need to take care of your Papa."

She wiped my tears and gave me another hug before she left.

Rosa was replaced by Enid Golowicz, who mostly served as a housekeeper than really a nanny to me. She wasn't as warm or as motherly as Rosa. In fact she was very stern and serious, but she also sometimes had a good sense of humor. When my Dad would go off on his tangents, she would roll her eyes and offer a grin as though she were humoring an excitable child.

She also was very good at teaching me to be self-sufficient. She taught me how to cook. It would be unusual for an 8-year-old, and an 8-year-old _boy_ at that learning to do what many would consider servants' work. I don't know the real reason why Enid started. She was older so maybe she came from the generation that idle hands made the Devil's work. Perhaps, she had enough financial foresight to see that my Dad's situation would only get worse and there would eventually come a day when we wouldn't have any servants at all. (She also may have had enough psychological insight to know that my Dad would not be counted on to step up when the time came.)

As for me, I liked being helpful and was always willing to help take pressure off my Dad so he could relax. So I took part in these cooking lessons. Like most kids, there were plenty of burnt eggs, over risen bread, lukewarm coffee, and things that I think were soup but I learned. The ultimate test was when I made my father's birthday strudel.

Enid and I didn't tell Dad about the cooking lessons. I wasn't sure if my father would think it was woman's work, or somehow get upset about the possibility that we couldn't afford a regular cook. So, neither Enid nor I ever told Dad that I made it. Instead he took a bite and said, "God, Enid this is the best strudel I ever ate! You outdid yourself!" Enid and I exchanged conspiratorial grins while inside I beamed.

After that Enid spoke to the remaining servants and they began to teach me the basics about housekeeping: cleaning floors, washing windows, doing laundry, ironing shirts, managing the home budget, washing the car, taking care of the lawn. It seems hard for an 8-year-old to learn all of that, but I think it taught me responsibility and allowed me to help my father through the subsequent tough times. Enid grew to be a guide to the person I would later become. I grew to love her, but not in the same needy child-like way I did for Rosa. Instead, I saw her as an ally in managing the house.

My father was driven as always in his work, keeping several film projects going at once, running constantly. Now that my mother pulled the Harrington money and shares out of Worldwide and my grandfather disinherited us in his will, my father no longer had that nested comfort that he could remain the mogul. He suddenly found that he himself was the head and he had to continuously prove to everyone that he deserved to remain that way. He was edgy, anxious, and tense-always arguing with everyone if they disagreed with him. The only person who could calm him down was me. Sometimes when he came home, he'd be wound up tight about the pressure at work. I would sit him down, put his slippers on his feet, hand him aspirin and water, rub his temples and shoulders and constantly assure him that everything would be okay, he was a great studio head, that the people he fought with didn't know what they were talking about, he still had me, and I was still his biggest fan.

He never took much time to relax except when Sheik Dugan visited the house and brought his entourage. Sheik Dugan, an agent and in my opinion a real creep, knew Dad ever since they were kids and Sheik used to bully him. When Dad became a success, Sheik latched onto him playing the sycophant, being a quasi-servant for him. Usually he was Dad's "procurer" and would give him certain things that he needed, like extra liquor, illegal drugs, or prostitutes.

I disliked Sheik ever since I had known him. Whenever, he visited, I got the idea that he kept staring at me as if sizing me up for some reason. He always made me uncomfortable the way he looked at me, so I often turned my head to avoid looking at him.

He also made lewd comments whenever I was around. For example he would say "Ready to be a man, yet kid? Want a blond or a brunette?" He would laugh then say that I would see him in a few years. He always made me feel like he was the person that adults warned you about taking candy from. I couldn't help but feel that if I were alone with Sheik, he would kidnap me for ransom or do worse. It wasn't until I was much older that I realized that my earlier caution was warranted.

Once I told Dad that I didn't like Sheik, that I was worried about what happened to Dad when he and Sheik hung around each other, and that I thought he should not let Sheik come to the house anymore. "Max," Dad interrupted sharply. "I work around here, pay the bills, keep a roof over our heads. I should get to do whatever I want in _my_ house! You don't like it, then you got two choices: you could go move in with your mother or you can stay in your room."

I sighed. "I'll stay in my room."

Dad softened and ruffled my hair. "God, Kiddo, sometimes you're worse than a little old lady always fussing over me. You're always worrying over everything."

"Well you always leave a lot to worry over," I said.

"Well stop," Dad said. "I looked after myself before you came along and will do fine without you. Besides you always want me to relax. This is how I relax!"

The doorbell rang as Enid let Sheik and four beautiful women surrounding him inside.

Dad greeted Sheik warmly. "Hiya, Sheik are these for you?"

Sheik laughed and wrapped his arms around two of the women, one a tall black woman and the other a short brunette that were dead ringers for Dorothy Dandridge and Gene Tierney. "No, these are mine." He then nodded as a blond and a redhead that resembled Veronica Lake and Rita Hayworth respectively stepped from behind him. "These are yours."

Dad waved them over and moved them forward. He sat on the sofa and the two ladies sat on both his legs.

Sheik noticed me still standing on the stairs and smirked. "Waiting for one of your own, kid? Have to wait 'til you're grown up. Of course, if you are interested in getting a little recognition-"He stepped past the woman and walked up to me. Sheik towered over me, coming close to my space. Feeling uncomfortable, that he violated my space I stepped back but Sheik reached over and put his hand on my leg. Sheik continued. "-You could always come to me." He winked.

"Leave him alone, Sheik," my Dad ordered so severely that Sheik drew back and returned to the living room.

I walked upstairs and retreated to my bedroom where I listened to _The Jack Benny Program, Amos & Andy_, and _NBC Classical Hour_ while I read and wrote my homework. All the while, the loud jazz and swing music, as well as the raucous laughter and talking getting more and more intoxicated, and the pleasurable moans from the girls were overpowering. I turned up the station to drown the music out and tried to block out the sound or the thought of my father making a fool of himself.

After I woke up in the morning, I crept downstairs. The atmosphere was quiet. The music turned off and the guests had left, except my father. Dad was sprawled on the sofa snoring, with liquor poured all over his suit. His hair was a mess and he looked haggard and unshaven. Al once said that he hardly ever had seen Dad drunk or hung over, but I saw it quite often. Maybe it was a sign that in front of his son, Sammy Glick could let his guard down or maybe he was beginning to show his age.

I sighed with relief, glad that it was Saturday morning and my Dad didn't have anywhere to go that day. He could sleep his hangover away.

I looked around the room at the stubbed cigarettes, broken liquor bottles, and ladies' lingerie that were thrown around the room. The owners of the lingerie weren't present, so I wryly wondered how they made it back to their place half-dressed. Instead of thinking anymore about it, I reached over to Dad and shook his arm. "Dad, come on, wake up," I said.

I shook him a few times and called his name and finally he sprang awake. "Wha-?" He relaxed. "Oh it's you, Max. What time is it?"

"9:00 AM," I said. "I'm just going to take you upstairs to bed."

"Okay," Dad mumbled pouting like a petulant child. "I was having fun too."

"Well the fun's over and everyone went home," I said. I held his hand and helped him rise. He rose too quickly and had an obvious headache, so he swooned back down. I then helped him stand again.

Slowly, I led him out of the room when he stopped and winced in pain. I looked down and saw my Dad was barefoot and a small piece of glass from a broken bottle cut his foot. "I'll get you some iodine when I get you upstairs," I promised. I slowly led my father by hand and walked him upstairs to his bedroom.

I sat Dad on the bed, and then retrieved the iodine from the bathroom. I rubbed his foot with the iodine which he winced from the pain. Dad playfully moved his foot forward and gently kicked near me with it. I stood up and helped Dad change into his pajamas and lay him down in the bed. "Enid will take care of the mess?" he asked.

"It's Saturday," I said. "Enid won't come until this afternoon. I'll take care of it."

"You don't have to," Dad said slowly. "That's what servants are for."

"That's okay, Dad, I don't mind," I insisted. "I'll take care of it."

"They're good for me, you know," Dad said. "Sheik reminds me how far I'm gone. They remind me of all the good things I got."

"You have plenty of good things, Dad," I reminded him. "You have a great home, a job you're good at, you have plenty of friends, and you have me, I'm your family."

"The house is okay, big but okay" Dad said glumly. "The job is great, but sometimes it just wears me down. Friends? The only friends I have are 'kiss asses' and yes men. They agree with me without ever once actually listening to me-"

"-Except Uncle Al and Aunt Kit," I reminded him.

"Yeah except them," Dad said. "And well, I got you. That's a good thing, a real good thing." I wrapped the covers over my Dad and ruffled his hair.

I waited as Dad mumbled a bit before falling further asleep. "Max, do me a favor?"

"What?" I asked.

"Don't ever be alone with Sheik Dugan," Dad warned. "I mean he's okay, but he swings both ways. You know what that means?"

I did. "Yes, that means he sleeps with men and women."

"Well not just men and women," Dad said nonplussed about my knowledge of adult concepts like sexuality. In Hollywood kids learned things really early. "I don't mind queers for the most part. They go their way, I go mine. They leave me alone, I leave them alone. Even the ones who are half like Cary or Marlene play it as even as the rest of us but with adults. There are some like Sheik, who like them young. I mean I became a man at 11, but I chose to do that and so did she, well, somewhat. It's a long story.

But Sheik on the other hand, doesn't always like to let the young ones choose to, if you know what I mean." I did. "You're still too young for him, I hope. But as you get older, he might give you the eye. He already told me that he thinks you're going to be a looker when you get older. Just, just be careful around him."

I should have said if Dad was that worried about it, he could have cut Sheik Dugan from his life and had nothing more to do with him, but as usual I didn't want to upset my father any more than he already was. I promised that I would never be alone with him.

My father's reputation with women was pretty well-known even from an 8-year-old and most of them came and went. I never saw them again after Sheik brought them or they were photographed with my Dad. The only one that I ever remember seeing more than once was an aspiring actress, Claire Michaud but after what happened between her and my father, I never forgot her.

One night the Manheims, Dad, and I were having dinner while Al, Kit, and Dad discussed their latest movie and Emily and I talked about the latest adventure that we were planning, an original story about a couple of aliens from outer space traveling into our solar system and meeting different people on the different planets. A knock filled the dining room. Enid answered the door and then returned to the dining room. She whispered in Dad's ear. My father's face looked confused but then looked angry. "Yeah, let me talk to her!" He stormed off his chair and followed Enid.

Curious, I politely excused myself and hid behind the stairwell listening to the conversation. Dad argued with a small dark-haired woman. She looked pretty and young in her late-teens and wore a lot of heavy makeup. A coat covered her red dress.

Next to her was a small boy, about three or so. He was dark-haired and hid bashfully behind the woman. "What are you doing here, Claire?" My dad hissed.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," the girl said in a French-Canadian accent.

At first I couldn't place her, but then I think I remembered her as one of Dad's "friends" that came to the house a few years ago while Dad and Mom were still married. "I know you told me not to contact you again, but I need your help and so does Christopher. "She nodded at the boy.

"Look I pay you every month," Dad insisted. "I took the goddamned blood test. What more do you want?"

"I need a father for him!" Claire almost shouted. "Now that you and Mrs. Glick are no longer together, I thought maybe you'd-"

"-That I'd marry you instead," Dad snorted. "One thing I learned after the last Hell I went through, I am definitely not the marrying kind-"

"-I didn't mean to marry me," Claire said. "I just need you to take Christopher in for a little while."

"Why would I do that?" Dad asked.

"You're his father," Claire begged.

Al entered the foyer. "Sammy what's going on? I heard shout-"He then saw the woman at the door. "Claire? What are you doing here?" He then looked down at the small boy then at Sammy quickly realizing the situation. "Sammy you didn't-"

"-Isn't the money enough?" Sammy snapped ignoring Al's words.

"I just need you to take him in for some time," she said. "Please Sammy, I don't have anyone else otherwise-"

"You have plenty of room," Al offered Dad glared at him with a 'shut up stupid' look.

"How long?" Dad asked.

"I don't know," Claire said. "It will be awhile."

"Look I already have one kid-"Dad began.

I decided it was time to step up. The kid looked confused like he was about to cry. I felt sorry for him. None of this was his fault. "I can help look after him." I leaned down so I could be face level with him. Was he really my brother? He did have the same nose as Dad and me and the same color hair. "What's your name?" I asked gently.

"Chris-pher Jophes Michaud," the boy answered shyly.

Claire shrugged. "He was born on the Feast of St. Christopher's Day and I liked the Bible story of Joseph and his brothers so I thought-"

"-Yeah," Dad interrupted clearly still not sold on the idea. In fact he looked at Christopher like he was some alien species that he didn't know what to make of him.

Christopher looked completely terrified and clung to his mother's hand. "I don't want this brat here for too long you understand," he told Claire. "Now where will I reach you?"

"I won't be settled yet," Claire answered. "But you will be contacted when I am."

Dad turned to me and said, "Max, could you take him up to the guest room?"

I nodded. "Sure," I said. I held out my hand. "Come on," I said. The boy didn't want to leave his mother at first, so I thought that I would bribe him. "Would you like to see some of the toys in my room? I might have some that you might like."

Christopher at first hesitated but then walked slowly to my hand. Claire then wrapped her arms around her son and said. "Good-bye Baby, remember Mama loves you very much."

"I love you too, Mama," the boy said with tears in his eyes. They pulled away from each other and Claire rose.

I slowly led Christopher up the stairs as I heard Claire tell my father thank you.

"Don't thank me," Dad said. "Just come back for him. This isn't a fancy orphanage."

Claire then left the house as I led the younger boy upstairs. I opened the door to my room as he looked back to the hallway. "Mama's sad so she goes away," Christopher answered. Something about the way he said that indicated that he was used to it.

"Is she sad a lot?" I asked.

Christopher nodded. "I try to make her happy, I really do." He was about to cry.

"I'm sure you do, Chris," I said hugging him. "Does anyone call you Chris?"

"Mommy calls me Christy sometimes," he said.

"Well that's a girl's name, so I'm going to call you Chris," I said. "You know something else?"

"What?" he asked.

"If my dad is your dad then that means you're my brother," I answered.

"Really," Chris asked if the thought hadn't occurred to him. "You're my big brother?"

"You bet," I said. "And as your big brother, I give you this sign of brotherhood." I picked up my Escapist League of the Golden Key Decoder Ring and put it on Chris' finger. "This means that we are brothers forever and nothing will ever separate us," I said making it sound official. "Now say it with me, brothers forever."

"Brothers forever," Chris repeated and we settled the pact with a handshake.

The next day, Dad, Chris, and I were eating supper. Chris and I were talking as I tried to break him out of his shell. Dad was still keeping Chris at a distance. He looked from him to me as if wordlessly confirming that we were brothers.

The door burst open and Al ran breathlessly inside without knocking or waiting to be announced. "Hey, Alsy Palsy," Dad said sarcastically. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Save it," Al barked. "May I talk to you alone?" He said. His face was red and it was clear that he was mad at my father but I didn't know why. He had a rolled up newspaper in his hand. For one brief moment, I wonder if he was going to hit my father over the head with it and say "Bad Sammy, Bad Sammy."

Dad gave us a sarcastic look and said, "Oh God, Dad's mad. What'd I do now?" and followed him into the foyer. My curiosity got the better of me and I told Chris to wait in the kitchen while I surreptiously followed them and hid beneath the stairwell.

Al held up the newspaper. "I suppose you think you're pretty smart, huh," He said. "Read this."

"Worldwide's latest production promises to be hit of the season," Dad said wryly. "Yeah it's got a good thing going for it." He said with pride.

"Not that," Al said through clenched teeth. "The story on the bottom." Before Dad could read it, Al read it out loud. "Actress Found In Hollywood Hills Believed To Be Suicide.

A body that was found in the Hollywood Hills over Mulholland Drive is confirmed to be that of aspiring actress, Claire Michaud. Michaud, 18-"

"-She told me she was 18 then," Dad gasped. I guess it dawned on him that he had fathered a child with a minor.

Al sniffed contemptuously and continued. "Michaud, 18, was an expatriate from Montreal Quebec Canada. She was mostly relegated to extras and bit parts. Her former roommate, whose name has been withheld, identified the body and said that she had been depressed. She left behind a note that reads 'I'm sorry I'm just too tired to go on. The only thing I have is my son and I know he is in good hands.' For privacy's sake, the son's name has also been withheld." Al slammed the paper down.

Dad read the article slowly and quipped. "Off the Hills, Mulholland. Not the Sign, I guess she didn't want to steal Entwhistle's thunder."

"Is that all you can say?" Al glared.

"I'm sorry she's dead," Sammy said. "I barely knew her. She was a quick tumble and I sent her on her way. Nine months later, she tells me her kid is mine and so rather than go through the hassle of her telling the press, I agree to a blood test. I'm the Dad alright, so I send money her way. Apparently, until last night that wasn't good enough."

"Sammy," Al said angrily. "Sometimes I want to shake you and make you realize the damage you do to people! Didn't you forget the small detail that's inside the dining room? What about Christopher, your son?"

"What about him?" Dad asked confused.

"What do you mean what about him, aren't you going to take him in?" Al asked.

"Why?" Dad asked.

"Are you looking for another answer than you're his father?" Al asked incredulously. "Because that's the main one I'm thinking about right now."

"I only met this kid last night," Dad practically shouted. "And you're asking me to take him in! If he doesn't have any relatives-"

"-The article says he doesn't," Al said reading. "Michaud was an orphan with no living relatives. Her former roommate described her as quiet and reserved with very few friends. 'She really didn't fit in the Hollywood scene. I don't even know why she bothered.'"

-"Oh you're breaking my heart, Al," Dad said sarcastically. "You think he has any relatives here?"

"I believe providing sperm to his mother's egg qualifies you as a relative," Al continued.

"That doesn't qualify me as his father," Dad said. "He belongs in an orphanage."

"He belongs with a family," Al shot back. "Just one look at him and you can tell that. That's probably why she left him with you so you can care for him."

"I already have a son, remember?" Dad said pointing upstairs towards my bedroom.

"That doesn't mean that you aren't permitted to have another one," Al said. "This isn't China."

"You're so concerned about this kid, Al, you take him in," Dad shot back.

"Why should Kit and I take him when his father lives just across the street?

And he will know his father lives across the street because I will point it out," Al said.

"You'd better not," my father threatened. "I'll ruin you if you do that!"

"Come on Sammy," Al said clearly not taking my Dad's threat seriously. "You really would leave this kid out alone in the world, in the streets, cold, hungry. You would leave him in his own Rivington Street? Why so you can score points with the world over what happened to you?"

Dad had his back turned, but I was practiced enough to recognize my father's body language to know that Al hit a nerve. "It worked for me. I didn't exactly have a Daddy Warbucks to take me in and I managed."

"Maybe you did," Al answered. "But on the other hand, do you really think you did manage and didn't lose something of yourself on the way?" Dad looked like he was about to object, but his mouth closed like he couldn't say anything else, so Al continued. "Okay, I should have realized. I can't appeal to your heart when you don't have one so I will speak in Sammy Glick-ese. I'll be honest with you, Sammy. You don't have a lot of friends in this town."

"I came here to make movies not friends," Dad answered.

"Be that as it may, you won't be able to do the former anymore without enough of the latter," Al replied. "The divorce hit you hard, I know that. You don't have the money or the investors that you used to. Another critical blow, a failure at the box office and you are done and there won't be anyone that cares."

"What's this got to do with the kid?" Dad asked.

"What better way to look more human, to look approachable than to let the story out that you took in a child, your child at that?" Al asked.

"Then they'll turn it around and learn that I fathered him illegitimately and while I was married at that," Dad reminded him. "Not to mention with a kid herself, which I didn't know but try telling anyone that and have them believe me."

"So you can always say that you adopted him," Al suggested. "People believe what they want to believe. It worked for Loretta Young and Clark Gable's kid."

"Yeah for how long?" Dad said. "Have you seen that girl's ears? They'll have to cut them off soon."

Al chuckled and nodded. "I heard they might do surgery on her."

"I could do the same with his nose," Dad said. "Nah, why bother? Many of us have it anyway." He considered. "Charley Stein's girl works at the Family Services. Maybe she could draw up some papers or something, saying I'm adopting him as a single parent or something."

"Joan Crawford and Bette Davis have done it, why would you be any different," Al said. "Just think about it, Sammy." He read the article again. "'The only thing I have is my son. I know he is in good hands.' Don't prove her wrong. She must see something differently in you that not too many other people do."

Al turned around and left the foyer. Dad moved behind the stairs clearly aware that I was listening. "You heard?"

"Uh huh," I answered.

"You know your birthday's coming up?" Dad said as if to change the subject.

"Yep," I said.

"Anything particular that you want?" He asked.

"A little brother?" I suggested.

"You promise to feed him, clean up after him, and take him for walks?" Dad teased.

"And give him water every day and brush his coat?" I said and nodded.

Dad laughed and chucked me under the chin. "Sammy Glick, Father of two," he muttered.

I walked upstairs to the guest room where Chris sat down on the bed. His eyes were on a notebook that he was sketching inside with a pencil. I sat next to him. Even before I said anything friendly or welcoming, Chris said sadly. "Mommy was sad and didn't come back did she?"

I wasn't sure what to say so I decided to go with the truth. "Yes in a way."

Chris looked up from the notebook, his face long and sad. There were no tears yet. "She always said she would. 'One day,' she said, 'I am going to be so sad that I am never going to come back.' "

I wasn't sure what hurt more: that Claire Michaud was so sad that she told her son that she would kill herself or Chris' almost acceptance that she had. I wondered what his life had been like. "Where did you live?" I asked.

Chris shrugged. "Lots of places. Mama said we couldn't stay forever."

"Did you have any friends? What do you like to do?" I asked. "Do you like to read?"

Chris shook his head. "I tried to read, but Mama says I'm not that smart. The words look funny."

"So what do you like to do?" I asked.

"I like to draw," Chris said. I raised my head but Chris showed me. "This is a bird outside mine and Mama's window." While I couldn't exactly call it the work of a genius, unlike any small children (like my own lack-of-drawing talents as a kid), Chris' picture didn't look like a blob that he said was a bird or just a stick figure. It looked like an actual bird in a window. I was amazed.

"That's really good," I said. "Can you draw a person, maybe a man or something?"

Chris nodded and within a few minutes drew a dark-haired man in a suit with a cigar sticking out of his mouth. I giggled. "He looks like Dad." Chris offered a small smile and laughed too.

I was surprised to hear him laugh so I continued thinking of the story that Emily and I were working on. "Can you draw a Mercucian?"

Chris was confused. "What's a Mer-coo-shin?"

"Well there are nine planets in our solar system that turn around the sun," I said counting off the planets with my fingers. "Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto. Pluto was the newest one that people discovered years ago. Each planet has different types of aliens on them." I said. Mine and Emily's stories were partly based on the science fiction stories that we read in _Amazing Stories_ but also on Greek mythology. So I described mine and Emily's version of what we thought people of Mercury looked like. "Well they are men and women that have these wings and they have to fly really fast, because Mercury is close to the sun so it's really hot. They have to fly from the bright side of the planet to the other where's it's dark so they can be cooler."

Christ thought for a moment and drew for a few minutes. When he was finished, I saw a tall man with spread out wings on his back. Chris even drew a large sun behind him and the man had a frightened expression on his face as though he realized the sun would burn him to a crisp if he didn't move.

"That's great," I said. I heard the sound of footsteps like someone had accidentally lost their balance. I looked up and saw Dad leaning against the wall with one foot. He offered a thin almost pleased smile and I smiled back. Then I turned to Chris. "Alright let's see what you can do with a Venusian."

Later that night, Chris walked up to Dad who was looking over a few Player contracts for Worldwide. He continued to keep Chris at a distance unsure of what to do with him. Not ready to claim his as his own, but not ready to turn him away yet. Chris stood across from Dad just staring at him seated on the sofa. "What?" Dad asked annoyed.

"Where do you go when you're sad?" Chris asked. "Do you go far away and come back later?"

"Well that's an easy question," Dad replied. "I don't go far away when I get sad because I don't get sad."

"Oh," Chris said wistfully. "Mama went away forever didn't she?"

Dad looked up from his contract and looked closely at the kid. "Yes, she did."

"Why?" Chris said his eyes filling with tears. "Didn't I make her happy?"

Dad sighed and put the contract down making a big show like Chris was interrupting his work. "I am never going to get this done, so come here." He motioned him forward and Chris sat next to him. "Listen, I don't know your mother that well.-"

"-But she said you're my Daddy," Chris replied. "Don't most Mommies and Daddies live together?"

"Some but not always," Dad answered. "Look at Max's mother. She doesn't live here either. How do I explain this? Sometimes Mommies and Daddies get married and live together for a long time and sometimes they are only together for a short time like only one night. I was like that with your Mommy."

"Did you love my Mommy?" he asked.

"It's not that," Dad said. "Sometimes there are reasons people aren't together for very long. In my case, I was already married to Max's Mommy so I couldn't be in love with anyone else."

"So it made my Mommy sad?" Chris asked.

"I think your Mommy was sad for a very long time," Dad said. "Sometimes people who are sad for a long time become weak and feel hurt by everyone. They can't see beyond how sad they are and how much pain that they are in. I think your Mommy was in too much pain and that pain weakened her and made her helpless. Just like someone's sick in the body, she was sick in the mind."

"Was it my fault or yours?" Chris asked.

Dad shook his head. "No, your Mommy was just wired differently than most people."

"So you're not wired differently?" he asked.

Dad shook his head. "No I'm wired with tougher harder stuff." He looked Chris up and down. "Do you like it here?"

"Yeah," Chris said. "It's so big! And everyone's so nice like Max, and Grandpa-"

"-Grandpa," Dad asked confused.

"Yeah that old guy that you said 'Dad was mad.'", Chris said.

Dad laughed when he realized what he said. "Oh you mean Al! Grandpa, no he's not your Grandpa and he's not my Dad. Thank God. Though I'll tell him you said that. He's just my friend, Al. I mean Max calls him Uncle Al, so I guess you can too. But he's not related to me, just my oldest best friend."

"And you're nice," Chris said.

"Don't believe it," Dad said. "I'm a mean old ogre who eats kids."

He tried to look his meanest, but Chris just laughed. "No you're not."

"So you want to live here?" Dad asked.

"Sure," Chris said.

Dad smiled. "Okay, now here is something very important. You have to tell people I adopted you."

"What's 'dopted?" Chris asked.

"That means I chose to let you live with me," Dad said. "Sometimes kids are different, some kids are born to two parents and others are chosen to live with them. So when people ask, you have to say that I chose to let you live with me."

"But you did choose to let me live with you," Chris asked confused.

Dad put up his hands. "Well there you are then. You're telling the truth. I think you'll get along here just fine."

So the news broke out that Sammy Glick had adopted a 3-year-old boy, Christopher as a single parent. "Since my divorce, I realized how important family is," Dad told reporters. "I also felt that my son Max was lonely and wanted to give as much love to this boy as I do to my older son."

Chris adjusted well into living at GlickFair. We bonded right away and Emily and I included him into our plays. Since Emily refused to be the one in distress, we finally had someone to rescue or to play the sidekick and he played the roles well!

Dad also grew used to having another kid in the house. He invited him to come swimming with us (with life preserver of course) and showed him around the Hollywood Hills especially at night when he took us out for a drive.

My mother however was less than impressed and when I visited her, she never extended the invitation to Chris. "He isn't my son," Mom said. "I refuse to take part in inflating your father's ego." So Chris remained with Dad when I visited her.

However, even though Dad had more family responsibilities than before, he could never stop being who he was. That included the crazy work schedule, schmoozing clients, and of course his relaxation time with Sheik Dugan. When that happened I usually kept Chris occupied upstairs.

He listened to the party downstairs as I took out the _Poky Little Puppy_ to read to him. "They remind me of Mommy's friends."

"Yeah just when they're here, stay upstairs," I warned. "Sometimes they can be pretty mean even Dad when he's drunk." I turned to the book as if that was what we were talking about all along. "Why don't you start?"

The boy looked closely at the words as I held them under my finger. "T-he-rie on-cie saw-"He then stopped. "See, my Mama was right! I'm too dumb to learn."

"That's not true," I said. "This happens to be a good book to read out loud." I cleared my throat and read out loud, "There once was a little puppy…"

Later while the party downstairs got wilder and I tried to get some sleep. All of a sudden, I heard the door open and a pair of small feet run into my room and flop on the bed. "Can I sleep in your room, Max?" Chris asked. "They're scaring me downstairs."

I hugged my little brother tightly. "Sure, just don't wiggle in bed okay?"

The next morning, Chris was still asleep in my bed so I picked him up and carried him back to his bedroom tucking him in. Then I walked downstairs and saw my hung-over father sprawled on the couch. I woke him up, helped him stand, and led him to bed. After I closed Dad's bedroom door, I leaned against the wall and sighed realizing now I was the parent of two.

Auburn Red's notes:

The prostitutes looking like film actresses are based on the prostitutes from the novel and film, _L.A_. _Confidential_ which were given plastic surgery to resemble Hollywood's A-list actresses. That in and of itself was based on a real-life brothel called Mae's Pleasure Palace which Garson Kanin wrote in his book, _Hollywood._ In Kanin's book not only did the girls have to look like the film stars, but had to watch their movies, read about their careers, and learn the latest gossip so they could respond in "character."

While I do not condone Sammy's word choice in describing gays, it is typical for its day and as established Sammy Glick is far from the most PC of men. What he said about Cary Grant and Marlene Dietrich were based on multiple sources. Grant lived for many years with a man, Randolph Scott who still remained a friend even after Grant was married. Dietrich had various lovers both male and female and was very open, as she could be at the time, about both.

The Escapist and the League of the Golden Key are characters from the great novel, _The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and_ _Clay_ by Michael Chabon. I figured that Max would be a fan of the Escapist comic book series and I think would relate to Joseph Kavalier and Sammy Clay (Hey a Jewish boy named Sammy further reasons to relate)'s themes of escape.

Mulholland Drive is a popular scenic location in which people can see Hollywood underneath. I believe it has been used in various movies like _E.T., License to Drive,_ and of course _Mulholland Drive._

Sammy's reference to "Entwhistle" is about Peg Entwhistle, a stage actress from the 1930's who suffered from depression and frequent unemployment. She jumped off the thirteenth letter of the Hollywood sign. Ironically, the next day in the mail was a contract to appear in a movie in which she would have played a woman who attempted suicide.

Judith Young's ears really were surgically altered when she was a teenager to lessen her physical similarity to Gable. It didn't work and most people (including Gable himself) believed it anyway.

Joan Crawford and Bette Davis both had high-profile adoptions as single parents. In fact all of their children were adopted.

Pluto was discovered in the 1930's so more recently than the others.

Little Golden Books have been around since the 1940's so Max and Chris could read the _Poky Little Puppy_ together.


	6. Chapter 5: Polio

My Father Sammy Glick: Confessions From the Son of a Hollywood Heel By Max Glick

A What Makes Sammy Run? Fanfic

By Auburn Red

Chapter Five: Polio

To overcome the loss of the Harrington money and investment, Dad was practically like a human handshake trying to find one investor after another. He decided to stay away from anyone who lived in the East Coast, figuring most of them were either Harrington relatives or friends and would refuse on the basis of being the man who was Laurette Harri-'s (Oh sorry Countess Laurette Von Hossenburgh of Lichtenstein. I attended the wedding. Nice big affair that probably made Grace Kelly blush. I was the ring bearer as promised and I met my stepbrothers, Christian and Adrien. They acted nice to me in front of our parents, but once their backs were turned, they let me know that I was "Ugly American Semite Brat" who wandered into their realm and should have taken the servants' entrance.) ex-husband.

My Dad instead focused his interest on millionaires of the West Coast "An untapped market of riches," Dad said. "People think of us Westies as poor relations"-conveniently forgetting up until he was 19, he wasn't a 'Westie.' –"I aim to make them noticeable along with Worldwide!" _And Sammy Glick,_ I thought.

It didn't take long. Dad used his persuasion superpowers and his new-found reputation as a single parent of two sons, and was able to get some investors interested. To wet their appetites, Dad suggested that they take a family trip to Lake Arrowhead for a "work vacation." At our vacation home, that he promised would only be used for real vacations. Not only that but I had to come along.

I was not happy. "Dad you promised that we would take a real vacation," I whined with all the knowledge of an 9-year-old.

"I'll go," Chris said. In the year he lived with us, he had become more gregarious and friendlier becoming the attention-seeking kid that Dad wanted me to be.

"Yes Man," I teased him.

"Knock it off you two," Dad said. "Of course you can go, Chris but so is Max." Well it's still a family vacation. Nothing's stopping you from swimming, sailing, vacationing. There will just be other families there. These investors are taking their wives, kids, and grandkids. I no longer have a wife. I'm too young for grandkids, so out of process of elimination I am bringing my kids. That's where you come in."

"Do you want me to talk to people?" I asked nervously.

"Unless you want them to think you were born without a tongue," Dad said putting some more clothes in his suitcase.

"Dad, I don't know if I want to," I stammered. "You said that I wouldn't have to do anything I didn't want to." Another promise broken by my father.

Dad sighed and slammed the suitcase shut, clearly fed up with this conversation. " _Max_ , you're going!" He demanded. "Now, if your mother hadn't pulled her family's money out of my studio and your Grandpa hadn't cut us out of his will, I wouldn't have to look elsewhere. But since I do, this is how it's going to go. You are going to go to this thing and make friends, entertain guests. If they ask you to dance, you will dance!"

"You make me sound like a trained monkey or poodle," I mumbled under my breath.

"No, because they would go without giving me any lip about it," Dad countered. "There won't be any reporters just a bunch of families. I'm sure there will be kids your age that you can make friends with. I'm not asking you to be life-long pals with them, just have fun for a weekend. You do know what fun is, don't you?"

"Yeah," I sulked.

I guessed Dad figured out paternal firmness wasn't making me melt. So maybe guilt and sensitivity would. He sat down on the bed and invited me to sit next to him. He turned to his younger son. "Chris can you go to your room and get some things together for our trip like clothes and stuff?"

"Okay," Chris said as he skipped to his bedroom leaving us alone.

Dad continued. "Max, you know we don't have the same amount of money that we used to. You know I had to let go a lot of the servants. It's getting harder to live the way we do, kiddo."

"But why can't we live simpler?" I asked. "Why do we have to live in such a big house and have all this stuff?"

"Are you trying to be a Commie?" Dad teased.

"No," I said. "But why do we have so many things?"

"Well it's a sign of how we live and how I worked hard for it," Dad said. I have a feeling Al Manheim would have a lot to counter with that statement. But at the time I didn't know any better. "These are symbols that tell me that I earned it and remind me to keep going and if I want to keep living the way I do then I need people to invest in the studio."

"Why do we need these investors so badly? I thought you were in charge," I said.

"I am," Dad said. "Look Max, I don't have a lot of time to explain the structure of how movie studios are run, but when you work for them, you're only as good as the money you bring in and that includes everybody from the lowest janitor and film-cutter, to the studio head. I, well, I haven't made as many friends in my climb as I probably should have, so people are always watching me almost rooting for me to fail."

"That's not right," I said.

"No but it is Hollywood," Dad said. "Everyone's waiting for their big chance and they are willing to step over bodies to get it. Sometimes the only way they can step in is if someone steps out, and not always willingly. In fact if they are forcibly removed it makes better publicity for them because they come across as the good guy. Always, watch your back kid, my tip for the day. When I had your Mom's money backing me up, I had plenty of support but now that it's gone, I'm well kind of like a general whose troops had left him."

"You're vulnerable," I said.

"Yeah, exactly," Dad was always impressed with my vocabulary and bragged that I used big words at 6 that he had to look in the dictionary at 16.

"So I could either surrender or get new troops," Dad said continuing his battle analogy. "And to that I need my most trusted lieutenants." He ruffled my hair.

"Okay, I'll do it," I agreed.

'"You never had a choice," Dad said partly teasing and partly serious. "Now get packed."

Actually, the vacation itself ended up not being that bad. It was the after-effects that were the problem. My Dad got his investors rather quickly as he talked up the future of California as the Golden Coast, that the Californian wealthy have a lot more to prove to those Brahmins on the East Coast. That many East Coasters supported the arts over there with sponsoring theatres and museums, and here these West Coasters have a chance to sponsor what is undoubtedly the biggest form of art in the world then. They agreed with my Dad's pitch.

They were also impressed with the impression of Dad as a family man. Chris adapted well, answering questions, being cute and speaking about how much he loved with living with my Dad. He also made friends with some of the kids his age and some of the older girls thought he was so adorable.

Since I was older, I had to be more involved. Reluctantly (and a bit stiffly), I played the little monkey greeting the guests, played piano during some of the dinner receptions (not great I admit, I was just learning), mixing and serving martinis, and modestly accepting praise on what well-behaved sons that Samuel Glick was raising and singlehandedly no less. I said all the right things, behaved the right way, but inside I couldn't ignore the panic that raced through me every time I shook some stranger's hand or told them about myself.

I also managed to make friends with some of the millionaires' kids and grandkids. One of them Tim and I shared a similar love of swimming, so we would often swim races in the lake. We also hung a rope off a tree, in an attempt to jump into the water.

The first time we tried it, Tim slid down the rope successfully. I misjudged the distance between the rope and the water so I ended up head first with my mouth full of dirty, fecal ridden, certainly at the time polluted water. I managed to maneuver my body, with help from Tim to put my head above water while trying to cough the remains of the water from my mouth. "We'd better go back," Tim said nodding at the row of concerned adults who stopped talking business and at the center of them were my father, and Chris who clung to Dad's leg, and Tim's grandparents. We managed to get to the shore while the tide of parents and other kids approached us.

Dad reached me and patted me on the back. "You okay, Kid?" he asked. "I can't take you anywhere can I?" He joked. He gave me a tight hug and whispered to me in a teasing tone. "You must have really wanted to get out of this, that badly."

"Is Max okay?" Chris asked scared.

"He's okay, Sonny-boy," Dad said. "He just has an upset stomach."

I shook my head as the water continued to leave my lungs the more my father pounded on my back. I coughed up what I felt was the last of it, but I still felt shaken and drained from the experience. Dad pulled me away from him to examine me closer. "You want to go lie down?"

"You sure you don't need me?" I asked.

"Nah, the papers are as good as signed and it's the last night," Dad said. "We'll be home tomorrow."

It turned out that the rest was exactly what I needed, because the next day I wasn't feeling well at all. In fact, if it weren't for the fact that we were going home, which is where I wanted to be more than anywhere, I would have asked Dad if we could stay longer just so I could sleep in.

The long ride home back to Bel-Air was made even longer by the fact that three times, I felt my stomach churn like I was going to throw up. Dad made our driver, David, stop each time to let me out to throw up. I vomited the contents of whatever I had eaten onto the California freeway while my Dad patted me on the back and said, "You did great, Max." Most of the time he had me stretch out and lie down in the back of the limo while he patted my forehead to let me know he was there. Chris was seated quietly asleep from the long trip. Once, he opened his eyes, realizing that we stopped, but rubbed his eyes and fell back to sleep.

When we arrived back home, I practically collapsed on the bed and didn't get out of it for two days. I had a bad fever, was tired, and vomited constantly. The fever lasted two days and little by little it had passed. Chris was sick the next day, but as with kids the next one who gets sick wasn't for very long, so his illness only lasted 24 hours.

My dad and I both breathed sighs of relief that it seemed the health crisis was over. It wasn't until about a week later that we realized that it was far from over.

I felt a slight headache and dizzy when I woke up, but Enid said since I wasn't throwing up that I would be fine. The headache and dizziness passed through most of the morning until we lined up to go to gym class. I had strange feelings in my legs like they could no longer support me. They felt like rubber. "Are you alright, Max?" our teacher, Miss Lockwood asked.

"I think so," I said feeling breathless like getting off my chair was a supreme effort. I trailed behind the other kids in line, staggering behind them. My legs started to feel numb, and I felt like I couldn't control them. I leaned against the wall terrified trying to catch my breath. I moved my hand from the wall, trying to move forward, but my legs wouldn't let me. The numbness and effort to move overpowered me and the last thing that I was conscious of was the linoleum hallway floor.

I was sort of conscious as the ambulance lifted me into a stretcher and carried me into a hospital. I was examined by a doctor who paid close attention to my lower spine and legs and listened to me describe the dizziness and numbness in them. He asked if I had been playing in any water recently and I told him about our trip to Lake Arrowhead including jumping in the water headfirst.

As I talked, I saw my father frantically run through the hallway looking for the room.

Dad pushed past Dr. Delknap and gave me a hug and kiss on the forehead. "What happened to you, Kiddo? You alright?" He asked.

"I don't know," I said. "I don't feel so good." I told him what happened at school.

"Where's Chris?" I asked.

"He's fine," Dad said. "Enid's looking after him." Dad patted my back and whispered words of comfort.

He then looked up and spoke to the doctor. "What happened here?" He asked.

Dr. Delknap sighed. "Mr. Glick, your son has been infected with the polio virus. He is right now paralyzed in the lower spine."

Dad paled and swooned. For the first time, since his divorce I saw that things had spiraled out of my Dad's control. (It wouldn't be the last). He put his hand to his mouth as if trying to stifle any emotion. "Roosevelt had it. He was President for four terms. Max will be alright. I mean he may be a cri- he may be crippled but he will live won't he Doc?"

"It doesn't always work that way, Mr. Glick," Dr. Delknap said. "President Roosevelt was an adult when he contracted the virus. With young victims, especially children, it can prove harmful even fatal at times especially when combined with influenza as your son has."

Dad shook his head. Once again he was Sammy Glick, in charge commanding everyone around him. "That can't happen, Doc! You have to let him live! My son can't die!"

"We'll do everything we can, Mr. Glick," the doctor said. "But he will also need treatment."

"Sure what does he need?" Dad asked frantically. "I'll do anything."

"He may need to be quarantined, away from other children especially," the doctor said evenly. "For a time he may have to be contained in an iron lung or an oxygen tent. Those are very costly treatments-"

"-I don't exactly live in a shack, Doc," Dad snapped. "I can afford it."

"Of course Mr. Glick," Dr. Delknap continued. I take it he was used to argumentative, angry desperate parents. "He will probably need care and nursing, perhaps a hospice nurse and he will probably have to go to a sanitarium and be removed from any contact including yours."

Dad nodded at all of the suggestions except the last one. "No, no! My boy is not going to any sanitarium where he will be separated from me! You got that!"

"Mr. Glick," Dr. Delknap began. "He may still be infected so he will need to be in a sanitized room."

"We have other rooms at the house," Dad said. "He can use one of the other ones until he gets better."

"He will need plenty of nursing and medical care," the doctor continued.

"I'll get it –a –what did you call it- a hospice nurse maybe a live-in or at least one that visits every day to take care of him," Dad continued desperately. "And I can afford one of those machines to look after him at home."

"He will need constant care and supervision," Dr. Delknap said. "Not to mention your younger son will have to live elsewhere if you don't want to risk him catching the virus as well."

"Then who better to look after Max than his own father," Dad said. "Chris can probably stay with my friends. Doc, I have spent my whole life running, running to survive, to be somebody and I have always encouraged my boy to do the same. Now that he can't run, I want to make sure that he survives. If I have to run for him, for all three of us of us, then I will." I could always see why my Dad made a career of making movies. He always liked to get the best quotes, the last word in.

It took some time, but my Dad selected one of the extra rooms in the mansion to use as my "Health Room" as we called it and adjust the house and our family to my illness.

Chris had temporarily moved in with the Manheims as Dad cheerfully helped him pack, told him that it would be like a sleep-over but that he would be able to get him soon.

The Health Room had been used as storage so the servants had a time removing everything and cleaning practically sanitizing the place. Oxygen walls were placed around the room. My father paid the $15,000 to have an iron lung placed in the room and electricity to run it. He made sure that a chair and small bed were by my bed, so he could sit or lie down when he was exhausted.

The iron lung was very uncomfortable. At first I felt like I couldn't breathe, because it compressed me so much and my back hurt from lying in the same position all the time. Sometimes when I slept, I felt like I was flying in an airplane or traveling on a boat and would even dream of those things. Over time I got used to it. (I'm glad I'm not claustrophobic otherwise it would have been worse). The low humming became soothing and I ignored the feelings on my body of being in one position too long. The worse part was I continued to feel sick. I coughed several times a night and complained of aches, and dizziness. My body still felt incredibly weak.

A nurse, Samantha, practically lived at the house checking my vitals; feeding me nourishment through the tubes connected by the lung, and nursed me during the illness. She was very nice and helpful. She also reminded me that sometimes the weakest bodies had the strongest constitutions to make up for it always giving me positive affirmations that I would heal and everything would be fine.

I also had another strong presence during my illness: My father. He told Worldwide that he was taking an extended leave of absence but refused to go into the exact details. He canceled or rescheduled all of his appointments, shifted all responsibilities for the time being to the vice-presidents (a pretty strong statement since he was always afraid of giving more responsibilities to them for fear that they would have too much power). He insisted on being alone with me, and refused any reporters or visitors. When Enid even asked if he wanted her to contact Countess Von Hossenburgh, Dad said, "No, don't tell her anything unless I have something to tell her."

Instead of making Hollywood deals, my Dad helped bathe and feed me. When my fever was high, he would cool my forehead with a wet compress. Since he couldn't hold my hands since they were inside the lung, he would put his hands through my hair or on my face and kiss the top of my head. He would sit in the chair or sleep in the cot next to me, sometimes his hand would be on the lung or on my forehead as if once again like when I was a baby, he couldn't sleep unless he knew I was asleep and breathing near him.

Sometimes my father would tell me stories, mostly scripts from movies either we had seen or he had worked on. He would imitate all the character's voices and make me laugh doing it. Sometimes he would reassure me of all the fun things we would do when I walked again like going swimming or out for ice cream. That we would pull through together because we were the Glick Boys and nothing had been invented yet that would stop us.

It would seem strange for Sammy Glick, the ultimate Hollywood Player to completely eschew Hollywood to nurse his sick son and to not have any publicity or any word in doing it. I think the reason he chose to do so was for two reasons.

The first reason is because Dad realized that I must have contracted polio at Lake Arrowhead and he didn't want any word to get out that his son was in such a fragile condition when he was in such a precarious position with the investors. They could have used any excuse to pull out and that would have caused all the work my father did to go down.

In fact he made courtesy phone calls to the investors thanking them for attending and asking about the welfares of their families. Most said that they were fine, though Tim's grandparents said that he had a fever for a couple of days that quickly passed and no other symptoms followed. He also visited Chris at the Manheims every day and called him on the phone to make sure that he didn't have it either. Kit and Al said he was fine, worried, but fine.

(Polio works that way. Some people only get the fever and some don't get sick at all. Like any other illness, it's a crap shoot over who gets it and who doesn't.)

The second reason was more important to Dad. As he explained to Dr. Delknap, he always ran to survive and to get ahead. To do that, he never did anything half-way. He pushed himself forward or he didn't do it at all. That included caring for his son. In his own way, I think Dad wanted to intuitively pass that survival instinct from himself into me and the only way that he could do that was if he were by my side.

I think he felt that if he left me, even for a moment, could not use his will to force God to let me live, then I would die. Sammy Glick wanted to be in control and he wanted to control whether his son could live or die. He wasn't going to allow God to take that from him.

Over two weeks, I was finally removed from the iron lung, but my health was still fragile, and potentially fatal. (The influenza was gone though). Dr. Delknap said that I could be moved to my own bedroom, provided that I had a bed-sit placed on it. It is a strange contraption in which the patient is practically harnessed and tied to the bed so they can remain in a seated position. It is very uncomfortable and it's difficult to get used to sleeping upwards with pillows propped up, but it's a lot better than being trapped inside an iron lung and allows some slight movement.

I was relieved to be out of the iron lung as my father picked me up and carried me outside of it. I felt stiff and rigid from being in one position for so long. It was painful as I tried to move my hands and arms and move my head in circles; just to be sure they still moved. I then tried to move my legs, but they still wouldn't move. My left leg looked somewhat normal, very pale and somewhat wrinkled from lack of use but normal as compared to my right. My right foot was completely misshapen, deformed and larger than it was before. It was stuck in the same position, pointed downward as though I were a ballerina trying to stand on my toes.

Dr. Delknap said that it was a good sign, for my left leg at least. "It appears that you only have partial paralysis. You may gain back feeling in your left leg and be able to move it again."

"And my right?" I asked still tired and weak.

Dr. Delknap looked serious like he didn't want to answer the question. "Well we'll see what happens."

Dad didn't say anything either being uncharacteristically quiet, but he held me tighter as he carried me to my bedroom.

Dad I think was also relieved that the iron lung was removed. Despite that it kept me alive, it was extremely expensive to purchase it in the first place and to keep it running. When my father was having financial problems, perhaps it was best not to have it. But I am glad he bought it anyway. I just knew that mentally he was counting the cost and couldn't wait until it was gone. At least the bed-sit was a lot less expensive.

It also gave me more range to move about and for my Dad to be physically closer to me. Since my hands were free, he could hold them and he held my hand at night to help me sleep and so he could get sleep him no doubt.

Besides helping Samantha in bathing, moving, and cleaning up after me, Dad performed a new duty: He rubbed my legs as if in an attempt to get feeling back into them and sometimes moved them up and down giving them easy exercise. I think he wanted to know for himself whether I would ever be able to move them and whether I would ever get feeling back in them.

Sometimes, especially at night, my father put me in his arms, stroked my hair, and kissed the top of my head, rocking me back and forth as though I were still a baby. I heard him whisper, "I'm not going to lose you, and you hear me. You're my little boy and nothing's going to take you from me."

One day, Enid gently knocked on my bedroom door. Dad had his head buried on top of my body and lifted it slowly. Even though he managed to shower, shave, and change into new clothing every day, the constant nursing and watching over me wore him out.

. He looked haggard, older, exhausted, not the usual Sammy Glick: The flashy Hollywood Heel, the Power Player, the one who was always running. This was the man who was still running, but to keep his son alive and it was wearing on him.

"You have a visitor, Mr. Glick," Enid said.

"I told you, Enid, no reporters," Dad said hoarsely.

"It's Mr. Manheim," Enid said.

Dad sighed. "Yeah, send him up."

After a couple of minutes, Al Manheim showed up at my bedroom door, his arms full with a cardboard box. He looked clean and pressed, but also concerned. He was over fifteen years older than my father, but to me he always looked much older. Like he could be Dad's father. Sometimes I think he felt like he was Dad's father, always lecturing him and acting like he was disappointed in him. I think Dad felt the same way too, especially when he ignored or made fun of Al's lectures behind his back, but despite their many arguments and disagreements; they could never really cut each other from their lives. "Your father is like a bad habit," Al teased. "Impossible to break, no matter how hard you try."

Al looked at Dad, who stood at the door when he came in. "Sammy, you look terrible."

Dad rolled his eyes. "Well my kid's been sick with a life-threatening illness and he may never walk again. Look at me; I'm bouncing off the walls." The words had no usual bite or sting, just worn out and defeated.

Al later confided in me, that he only ever seen my Dad so defeated and lost once before, on his wedding night when he caught my mother with Carter Judd. "I saw the same vulnerability that I did then, but this was worse far worse," Al said to me. "Before your father lost what he thought was love, or at least his definition of love. This time, I knew

he knew what love was and it was like that part of him, that capacity to finally feel love, could be ripped out of him."

Al ignored Dad's sarcasm. He had heard it so long that he as used to it, as Dad was to Al's sarcasm. Instead, he turned to the bed-ridden invalid. "Hi Uncle Al," I said weakly with a cough.

"Hi Max," Al said, his box still in hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Still tired and weak," I said. "I can't walk yet."

"Well I know you will," Al said in that confident way that grown-ups always talked to kids trying to keep their spirits up even when they weren't sure themselves.

"You think so?" I asked.

"I know so," Al said. "You're your father's son and you have his cast iron streak of stubbornness. There is no way that the son of Sammy Glick would let anything stop him."

"Is Chris okay?" I asked.

Al nodded. "He's doing fine. He's with Emily and Aunt Kit right now."

I smiled. "What's in the box?" I asked.

"Well, Emily and Chris are worried about you, but I told them that they couldn't

couldn't come yet," he said. I knew why: Word had no doubt come out that I had polio and the Manheims were afraid they could still catch it. Al continued to try to cheer me up and opened the box. "So we worked together to create this box of fun things that you can do while you're here in bed, so you don't get bored."

He thumbed through the box and pulled out various books, comic books, coloring books and crayons, a water color painting set, some games like Tidily-winks, Boggle, Barrel of Monkeys, Jacks, and Marbles. I pulled out some drawings as Al explained. "Chris drew them. He thought you could use some cheering up."

I looked at the pictures which showed a lot of our stories and scenes from movies. My favorite was one of one man and two boys outside a very familiar mansion holding hands. "They look familiar," I said. I smiled at Dad. "Especially the tall one with the yellow scarf and the cigar in his mouth."

Dad gave an exaggerated gasp. "I didn't know Chris could draw Sam Goldwyn!" We laughed.

The strangest thing that I saw was a stuffed white rabbit. I knew this rabbit; I had seen it in Emily's room every day since I was five. "Harvey," I said surprised.

Harvey The Rabbit, named of course for the James Stewart film, was Emily's favorite toy. He always stayed on her bed and she slept with it every night. She wouldn't even let me touch it, which sometimes just to be ornery I would pick it up and run with it usually ending with Emily yelling, _"M-o-o-o-m, Max has Harvey and won't give him ba-a-a-ack!_ "

Al smiled with a proud fatherly grin. "She said you probably need him more than she does."

He handed Harvey to me and I would have taken it, except Dad's sharp voice interrupted. "Take that rabbit back!"

Al stared at Dad confused. "Sammy, it's from Emily. She just wants to cheer Max up."

"I don't care," Dad said as if Al were a slow study. "I don't want him to have that toy! Put it back and get rid of it!"

Al put the rabbit back in the box. "Look if you're worried about Emily catching anything. She won't. It's a gift; she said that Max can keep it."

"I don't care," Dad repeated more harshly. "My sons don't get second hand toys!"

Al stood up and faced Dad squarely. "My daughter has been crying her eyes out worried about your son, because he's her best friend. This is her favorite toy. She loved Harvey and never slept or liked to go anywhere without him. That's how much he means to her but also how much Max means to her! Sammy, this is an act of love and friendship."

"Act of love and friendship," Dad spat. "All of those secondhand toys that smelled like cigarettes and piss, missing arms or legs, or eyes. The incomplete trains or block sets that missed important pieces. The clothes that my brother handed down to me that never fit,

the big clown shoes that always fell off my feet! They always claimed 'they were acts of love and friendship!' You know what they were acts of charity, favors, people just giving away stuff they didn't want anymore! When my sons came to me, I vowed that

they would never have to wear someone else's clothes or play with toys that someone else touched! They shouldn't have to!"

Al shook his head, rolled his eyes, but his mouth was set in a firm line. Later he said as if to explain, "Your father will always be haunted by the Ghosts of Rivington Street. Even something seemingly small like a stuffed rabbit takes him back to that hungry street kid that always had to accept everything secondhand." I nodded looking at my closet of new shoes some not even worn before the next pair arrived and understood. Dad put a lot of distance between himself and his past and he didn't want his sons to have even a faint glimpse of a reminder of what his life was like.

Al reluctantly put Harvey back. "I'll tell Emily that Max rejected it because it meant too much to her or something."

"She would miss him anyway," I agreed. "It wouldn't be a complete lie."

"Maybe we'll get you a new one just like it," Al said ruffling my hair.

Al held onto Harvey and stood up about to leave when Dad called him, this time softer. "Hey Al, you got a minute?"

"Sure, what do you need?" Al said possibly still burned by Dad's rejection of Harvey, but confused and suspicious too.

"I just….could you stay here and talk to me for a bit," Dad said suddenly looking old and tired. "I've been taking care of Max, this whole time and….I just…I feel like I'm going nuts here, constantly worried about him and Chris. I feel like my whole world has just been in this room and the other one. I'm even losing track of what day it is."

"It's Thursday, the 12th," Al said.

"See the days are starting to run together," Dad sighed. "I just need to talk to someone," He looked down at me and kissed my forehead. "Someone else anyway."

Al shrugged and put Harvey on my desk then took out my folding chair and sat next to my father. "Have you been looking after yourself?" He asked as though that were a stupid question. After all when did Sammy Glick not look after himself?

Dad shrugged. "I shower, shave, change every day. I follow the news in _Variety_ ; contact my assistants on the phone. They say everything's going okay. I don't know if I should be glad or worried that things are running so smoothly without me."

"Are you eating okay?" Al asked. He then nodded at the door. "I left a casserole with Enid. Kit made it."

"Kit made it-?" Dad asked confused. Kit Sargent-Manheim was a great screenwriter, dedicated Screenwriter's Guild member, warm human being, loving wife to Al and mother to Emily, and a second mother to Chris and me. But she was not known for her cooking skills.

Al offered a thin smile. "Well Stella made it, Kit supervised." He amended. Dad nodded as though that made more sense.

"Tell her thanks," Dad said. "I'm eating okay." Before he could ask, Dad continued. "Most of the time I sleep in here." He nodded at the cot that had been moved from the Health Room. He looked at his watch, then stood up and walked to the foot of my bed. He rubbed my legs vigorously, and then lifted them one at a time.

"Maybe you need a break, Sammy," Al said. "Let someone else look after him for a while."

Dad shook his head. "No, not until he gets out of this bed and walks." He rubbed my legs this time more fiercely as though he were trying to rub the polio away.

 _Another thing to keep you running,_ Al said he remembered thinking. Dad kept his determined look on me as if once again daring God to take me while I was on Sammy Glick's watch.

He sagged as he gently rubbed my legs again before sitting back down. "It doesn't make sense, Al," he said.

"What doesn't make sense?" Al asked.

"Him, Max being here like this," Dad said wearily. "It should be me." He had tears in his eyes. "Al, I've been a rat and a jerk." There was a silence as Max said sarcastically. "I don't hear you objecting, Al."

Al wryly shrugged. "It's hard to argue with the truth."

Dad nodded. "Well the truth is, I've done things, things that made sense at the time. Things to get ahead, I don't-didn't spend a lot of time regretting them. I'm not always proud of them though. I always thought 'Yeah, I did this but…' always having some reason for it, some way to make it out to be in my favor. Sometimes I question myself for adopting Chris! Max is the only thing, the only person in my entire life where I can say, 'I did this' and stop. The only time I ever feel truly proud or happy with someone other than myself is when I'm with my boys.

I have never regretted anything about them. It doesn't make any sense does it?"

"It makes perfect sense," Al replied. "That's what being a parent is all about."

"But Al, I've done so many rotten things that I can't count them all," Dad sighed his voice wavering. "If God wanted to punish me for this then shouldn't it be me here in this bed or in that iron lung? Why is it my son, my little boy? The only wrong thing he ever did was love this useless husk of a man he calls his father. Why does he want to take him instead? It's not fair."

When Al spoke again, his voice was much softer like a priest listening to someone in confession. "I don't know Sammy. I've been wondering about things like that since the Holocaust. Maybe God is trying to test us."

Dad laughed bitterly through his tears. "Well then I wish he'd test someone else. What the hell do I need a test for anyway?"

"Sammy, I wish I had the answers but I don't," Al said his hand on my father's shoulder. "Maybe God is trying to remind you of what's important. That everything you-" At this Al had a snide sarcastic tone as though he were quoting the next two words instead of actually believing them. "-'worked for' that all of this is meaningless if you don't have someone with which to share. I mean I had a memorable career, but since I married Kit and we had Emily, I feel complete, happy. Maybe this is reminding you that your only real happiness is right here." He nodded at me sitting on the bed hovering between asleep and awake. "And over there," He nodded in the direction of his house where Chris no doubt was.

Dad gave a wry smile. "Great punchline, something we could have written. You know the deathbed scenes are never like you see in the pictures. They always make it, unless they're Beth March or Camille, or some old geezer who's going to leave their fortune to the family."

"Sometimes there are reasons those platitudes work so well," Al suggested. "Maybe some ways they make sense."

The two sat over me in silence for several minutes. "I never thought I'd see the day when Sammy Glick would not say anything," Al teased in a friendly manner.

"I've run out of things to say to him," Dad said. I was almost fully asleep, so I didn't mind them talking about me like I wasn't in the room. Besides later Al filled me in on what he and Dad talked about. "I've given him hope, told him about a thousand things that we'll do when he climbs out of bed, told him every story I could think of. Recited plots of movies that I had seen since the Nickelodeons. I've even read some of his books out loud when you know I don't read so good."

"So well," Al corrected almost as though it were a reflex. "Maybe he doesn't need to hear a story or a promise of what you are going to do."

"I have nothing left to tell him," Dad said.

"Maybe you could tell him the truth," Al suggested.

Dad smirked. "Come on Al. 'The truth' and 'Sammy Glick' haven't exactly been friends for a long time. What truth would I have to tell him?"

"Does he know anything about you?" Al said. "Where you came from, your past, your childhood, anything?"

"Yeah," Dad said determined. Upon Al's searching gaze, Dad changed his tone. "Some of it. Not much really."

"Why don't you start with that?" Al suggested.

Dad thought for a minute in silence then he held my hand. "The truth okay, the truth. I guess it couldn't hurt." He took my hand and told me his story:

"Once there was this kid who grew up on Rivington Street in the Lower East Side and he hated it there. His folks came to the U.S. from Russia. He had two older brothers but they died before he was born so he never knew them. He had one older brother that was alive though, and he was smart, obedient, perfect Papa's little Golden Boy, everything the kid wasn't. The Old Man and Lady still had feet in the Old World. The Old Man he worked as a glass cutter, but when they went on strike so did he and he ended up pushing a cart selling stuff, mostly clothes and other things.

So the kid ended up working as a newsboy. To get people to buy the papers, sometimes the kid would make the headlines a little more colorful saying 'U.S. Entered War' when they hadn't and stuff like that. He'd sell every paper, but that wasn't good enough for Papa oh no!

'You didn't get that money honestly,' he'd say. 'It's just stealing.' On and on. 'Don't touch money on the Sabbath.' 'Don't do this.' 'Don't do that.' The big brother wasn't working, because he was preparing for his Bar Mitzvah. The kid would freeze his ass off, his voice growing hoarse selling paper after paper, while his brother was trying to be such a great scholar, and his Pop the lazy son of a-"

Al interrupted by clearing his throat. "Sammy!" he corrected.

Sammy sighed. "Okay, anyway the kid would sell papers and earn more money than his Old Man did selling things on the push cart and he hated that. He hated that he couldn't play ball or have fun. He just had to work.

So the kid went to school and the other kids would call him names like 'Yid,' and 'Hebe,' and 'Kike.' One kid in particular, I won't name names but it sounds like 'Meek Bugin' would beat him up every day telling him that he killed Christ. The kids on the street would make fun of him for wearing his brother's hand-me-downs especially when his too-big uncomfortable shoes fell off him. Of course the kid had the last laugh because he would throw the shoes at anyone who made fun of him. As for the beating well, the kid vowed that no one especially 'Christ's Greatest Defender' would see him cry.

Like I said, this kid hated Rivington Street, hated everything about it. He hated all of the people packed like sardines. He hated having to fight everyone for food, for a seat in school, for everything. He wanted more than anything to get out and go away. He would hear about rich people that lived in fancy houses, drove automobiles, wore new clothes and he wanted to be like them. He dreamed every day of the day when he would have all of that and leave Rivington Street behind.

His favorite thing to do, the only thing that he liked to do was go to the pictures. He loved them ever since the Nickelodeons and when they became the bigger Silents and onto the Talkies. Sometimes he would spend part of his money to go to the pictures. He went so often that the people on the screen: Doug Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, Charlie Chaplin, Tom Mix, Clara Bow, Rudy Valentino, Theda Bara, Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd, they became friends to him.

The kid would imagine in his head all the different stories that he saw on the screen and then make some of them up.

But see the kid he had a problem. He would create these stories in his head. Sometimes he would mentally act them out, picture scene after scene but when he wrote them down, they came out wrong. The kid didn't read so-" He glanced at Al remembering "- _well_. He could read okay, but sometimes the words were jumbled up or too long for him to understand. Sometimes his brain just wandered off when he read something. That's what it looked like when he wrote these movies down. They looked stupid, jumbled. They always made this kid feel dumb, like he would be stuck there in Rivington for the rest of his life.

The more the kid hated Rivington Street, the angrier he became. He was angry at everybody, at the kids who made fun of him, the girls in the street even one who made him a man because they were all pros, being a Jew because all it did was get him beaten up, his school because he couldn't learn anything, his new job working as a Western Union messenger boy because it didn't pay him enough to get him out, and especially hated his family. He hated that he had to give his father money when he could have stayed a glass cutter. He stayed away from the synagogue because he felt everything that they taught was phony and wasn't important in the real world. All they were laws that were supposed to please a being that the kid didn't even know existed.

When his father found out that the kid wasn't studying for his Bar Mitzvah, he flipped his gourd saying 'all he cared about was money,' and 'that it were better his son were dead than a disgrace to his people.' Well the kid had enough of the Old Man lecturing him, insulting him. He called him every name he could think of. To the kid, his old man was a quitter. He never wanted to get out of Rivington Street never wanted any higher. He never even tried because he believed this all powerful God would provide for them!

The next day, the Old Man died. His push cart was hit by a car. The kid's mother and brother cared for him, but the kid couldn't, he wouldn't. He was too angry at him. Every time he thought about his Pop, he wasn't his father: He was just the guy who made him mad.

When he finally died, the kid felt sad sure but he couldn't show it. He didn't want to feel anything, but anger. He didn't want to go to his father's funeral, because he was so consumed by his anger and his desire to escape and get away. Instead of sitting Shiva for his father, the kid went to the movies: The only place he felt safe, the only place he could truly get away. Maybe it was the only place he truly belonged, there in the dark watching the faces on the screen.

Well the kid never stopped dreaming and wanting to get out of Rivington Street and one way he knew was to speak like rich people do, so he decided to work as a copyboy for this newspaper. Most of the guys there didn't pay any attention to him. He was just some kid running off and getting their copy and doing errands for them. But there was this one guy who did-" Sammy glanced at Al who smiled at the memory. "-The kid said that he was the new office boy, but he ain't gonna be the office boy for long. And the guy said-"

" '-Don't say ain't,' Al said recalling. 'Or you're going to be an office boy forever.'"

Dad smiled too. "So this guy, he didn't ignore the kid. He gave him pointers to improve his grammar, gave him tickets to shows, always used long words, and sometimes gave him advice. Okay, the kid didn't always listen, usually he ignored him or thought the guy was off his nut. Sometimes he thought the guy was watching him running from one place to another, sort of studying him. But the kid liked the guy, liked that he tried to help him out, liked that he wasn't afraid to be honest with him. He even thought the guy was his-" He turned to Al as if confirming it. "-Friend?"

Al nodded and Dad smiled as if he had waited a long time to hear Al say it. "-Friend," Al agreed. He gave Dad a chuck on the shoulder.

"The kid wanted to move higher in the paper, so he saw that his friend had dropped some verbs in his article. Maybe he wasn't concentrating or something, I don't know. So the kid rewrote the column just to prove that he had learned and because he wanted to help the guy who had helped him for so long-"

"-Like a flit to flies," Al muttered sarcastically but in a tone that indicated that it was an old wound that didn't matter anymore.

"Eventually the kid got his own radio column and met some influential people, even started going out with a nice girl from the neighborhood," Dad said. "But you see, sometimes when you reach something that you're running towards, you're not satisfied because it's not enough somehow. The kid realized this when some nebbish Schlemiel walked in with a script.

The kid took a look at it and it was funny, clever, and original. It was everything that the kid wanted to write, but couldn't. The kid loved the script, but he was angry at the writer, this writer he had the talent that the kid wanted but he didn't have the drive to do anything with it. Yet here this kid had the drive, but he couldn't put his thoughts to paper. Compared to this other guy, the kid felt stupid and in-um unade-

"-Inadequate," Al supplied.

Dad pointed at Al as though it were a comedy routine. "See what I mean, long words?

So what could the kid do? He sent it to Hollywood under his own name. He figured there could be no harm in it, not if the kid got paid for it."

"No harm to anyone except Julian Blumberg," Al muttered under his breath. Dad glared at him as if to say 'whose telling the story?'

Dad continued. "So anyway, the kid got his start in Hollywood. Oh, he loved it. It was his sort of town! Everyone was getting ahead, trying to get away from who they were. To this guy, it was like the town was just made for him. So, he worked as a screenwriter for a while. He had to leave his girl behind, because well she would never happy out there. She would just be happy living in some Jewish neighborhood, it wasn't for her.

As for the nebbish schlemiel, well the guy needed him to continue writing with him. Maybe he could get him started and the guy would eventually be talented enough to write his own scripts and that worked out for a while. But once again that kid he just wanted more. It wasn't enough.

He wasn't making enough as a screenwriter, so when some of his friends, including his old palsy who worked at the paper-" Dad nodded in Al's direction again. "-started a Screenwriter's Guild, the guy thought they snapped their cap because how could he move ahead if they're all concentrating on their fellow man and writers?

He joined, but he could see they were making fools of themselves so he got out when

the getting was good and it worked for him.

He worked directly under this studio head that'd been around since day one. I mean, the kid had seen some of his Nickelodeons that's how long he'd been around. But the studio mogul, he thought the guy had some good ideas so he promoted him to become a producer of B pictures and maybe one day he'd move up to A's.

This was it, the kid thought, 'I don't have to pretend like I can write if I can't. I can get other people to write for me.' He bought a nice big house, just like he always wanted. He could have been happy but he wasn't. Once again, he wasn't. He couldn't stop. He was running and you don't stop running in the middle of a race.

It's not enough to produce B pictures, why he could run the whole damn studio. The head, he was a nice guy, he really was. But he was getting old, it was time for the kid to step up in class.

So, there were some Wall Street types who wanted to invest in movies, so the kid cozied up to them figuring that the best way would be to make powerful influential friends and he had another reason: He met the most beautiful girl. She was like a princess, a goddess

She wasn't like anyone else he ever knew. She was classy, sophisticated. She wasn't looking for a roll in the hay or a screen test like the other girls he knew. This would be the girl that he could marry. He ignored that she insulted him, treated him like he was a lesser being, everything except that she would be the perfect wife for him. Yes, he was in love with her.

Well the studio head was removed. His movies flopped and he was getting old, it was time for some new blood. He died afterward-" Dad sounded guilty about that but cleared his throat as if to bury those feelings. "-But that's the way it goes. Not only but the Princess and her father agreed to let him marry her. He thought, 'This was it. I can finally stop running. I finally have everything I want.' But it was a lie.

As soon as he got married, the guy caught his wife with another man. She said she didn't love the lug she married and that they were just going to have a business arrangement, stay married but could be with other people.

Also, the guy also realized that as smart as he was, there were others underneath him who were just as smart. Others who like him, got where they were but weren't satisfied. They wanted his spot just as much as he did and they were waiting for him to fall down just like the others before him." Dad smiled again at Al. "He still had his friends, his closest friend and a wonderful woman that was perfect for his friend. But he was alone. He was afraid that he would always be alone, always watching his back always staying on top, watching his marriage go to pieces and he couldn't do anything about it. He was in a big house and even though he acted like he wasn't, he was alone and he was unhappy."

When Dad spoke again, his voice filled with tears. "Then one day, this Wonderful Little Person appeared in the guy's life. He cried a lot and constantly needed attention. It took a while for the guy to get used to the idea. But one night, the little guy started crying so the guy went to his room, picked him up, and he saw nothing but love, un-um condition-"

"-Unconditonal," Al offered.

"-Unconditional love," Dad said. "A few years later, this broad showed up and left this Other Wonderful Little Person with him and even though the guy was nervous about him and not sure. He saw that same love from him that he saw in the older little guy, especially after his broad of a mother died.

These little guys, these wonderful little guys, loved this guy who hadn't done anything to deserve such love. They loved him anyway, never asked questions, and never wanted anything else from him. It didn't matter to the little guys how much money the guy made or, the size house they lived in, or what his job title was. These little people didn't ask for anything except for him to love them back and he did. Oh he did."

For the first time, that guy was truly happy because he felt loved and realize that he was capable of loving someone else. Even after the guy got divorced, after he didn't have much money, and one son became sick, that didn't matter because as long as he had these Wonderful Little People by his side then everything would be alright. That no matter what he finally had someone, two someones, that made him happy."

"And he had at least two good friends that understand him and would always be there as much as they can," Al said keeping a firm grip on Dad's shoulder and for a moment Dad sat there hollowly but finally he gave in and sobbed. Al handed Dad a handkerchief and let him cry on his shoulder.

After a few minutes, Al got up to leave. He picked up Harvey, but Dad said, "Hey Al?"

"What Sammy?" Al asked.

"Leave the damn rabbit," Dad answered. Al smiled and gently placed Harvey on the bed next to me before he left.

I would love to say that this moment cemented Dad and Al's friendship forever and there were no more harsh words said between them. That Al sitting there with my father watching over me and Dad telling his story, pulled them closer than ever. If this were a movie, it would be. But it wasn't.

Within a year's time, the friendship between Al Manheim and Sammy Glick would be fractured and almost irreparably severed. But even at the worst, I liked to think back to that time when my father was left with no hope that his older son would survive and he had no one to cling to but the man who had been his best friend for over twenty years, the man who chose to sit next to him when he needed him the most.

Within a few days, I was able to finally be moved from the bed and took tentative steps towards walking again. My left leg was weakened from lack of use, but my right leg was still unable to be moved. I was fitted with a metal brace that traveled up my leg from my foot to my thigh and I walked with a crutch. The brace was very painful and extremely heavy. I could only drag my leg forward leaning on the crutch. I felt like a robot or the Tin Man in the _Wizard of OZ_. The first few times I tried, I had to stop and rest because the brace was so heavy and uncomfortable that I couldn't walk very much. Finally, I was able to move around the room and through the house. (Thankfully my bedroom was moved to the first floor during my illness so I didn't have to worry about climbing stairs.)

Chris returned to live with us and I gave him a one-armed hug. Dad had returned to work, when I came out of bed but when he was home he constantly watched over me, helped walk me around the house and encouraged my process. "Come on kiddo," he'd say. "You can do it."

Sometimes he would tease me and call me Tiny Tim and say if I lived in Rivington, I could go around begging for food saying "Please sir, I want some more." ("That was Oliver Twist, Dad," I corrected. "Not Tiny Tim." "Well whoever it was," Dad said. "I don't care which character by Mark Twain it was." I shook my head rather than correct him further.)

Chris also helped out trying to hold one hand and helping me walk. "You can do it," he said parroting my father.

When I was finally able to move around outside the house and down the street, I was judged well enough to return to school. Miss Lockwood was nice enough allowing me to move to the front of the room close to the door so I wouldn't have to travel very far to get in and out. I also managed to stretch my leg through the hall to get slightly comfortable. She was however concerned about how much school I had missed and that I had fallen behind in my studies. She and Emily were about the only people who were helpful when I returned to school.

Many of the kids stared and laughed at my leg brace. Some followed me singing, "If I Only Had a Heart" mimicking the Tin Man's dance in the movie. On the way out of school, sometimes the other kids, usually led by B.J. Callahan, would follow me and chant "Yid the Gimp!" "Yid the Gimp!" "Yid the Gimp!" I limped faster but I couldn't get very far from them.

Oftentimes Emily walked with me, sometimes carrying my books. She would shout, "Leave him alone!" which caused the boys especially to laugh even more saying that I must have lost more than my leg for a girl to defend me.

The Boy's Gym Teacher, Coach Hill never liked me to begin with. I was skinny, not very athletic, and didn't have a lot of power in playing sports. Plus, he was Anti-Semitic usually saying things that "Your people will never play sports." When I walked in with my big leg brace and showed me the letter from my father and Dr. Delknap stating that I could opt out of any strenuous physical activity. Coach Hill took one look at the letter then threw it in the trash.

"Glick get in line and run laps with the others," He commanded.

I was surprised. "But Coach the letter-"

"-I don't care what the letter says," Coach Hill continued. "Get marching, Glick!"

I followed the other students while Hill barked orders telling us boys to keep running. He especially told me to keep up, "Run, Glick run!" He commanded. "No faking!"

I panted as I limped inside the metal brace. He seriously thought that I would fake being out of school for over a month? That I would go so far as to fake an illness by returning wearing this painful uncomfortable brace? "I, huh, huh can't," I gasped. I stopped for a second.

But Coach Hill yelled, his bald head completely red. "I don't want to hear your excuses, Glick! Your people think the whole world owes you a living!" He kicked the crutch from my hand and on the ground. "Now, get moving!"

I hopped feeling the pain worsen the more I moved. The other boys ran far ahead of me and some pointed and laughed once again chanting "Yid the Gimp!" I tried to move forward again but the pain was overpowering and I collapsed on the ground unable to move anymore.

Coach Hill kept telling me to get up, but I had enough. I stuck out my brace and swung it on the floor kicking the coach's foot. I grinned satisfied as he glowered in pain.

I sat across from the principal, Mr. Dawson who glared at me. I could hear a loud commotion outside as a familiar voice argued with Mr. Dawson's secretary. "Sir, you're supposed to wait to be announced."

"I'm here aren't I?" My dad commanded as he opened Mr. Dawson's door. Dad first put his arm around me and asked if I was alright.

"I'm okay now," I said the brace still feeling heavy on my leg especially from the exertion.

Mr. Dawson explained what happened. "Coach Hill behaved somewhat forward, I will admit but he was well within his rights to control your son's behavior-"

"-Control my son's behavior?" My Dad repeated. "By kicking the crutch from him! By sitting there as the other kids called him names? By ignoring the doctor's letter telling him specifically to make my son's gym class light? Accusing him of faking when he clearly isn't?"

Mr. Dawson shrugged. "Well your people do have a talent for dramatization-":

Dad grinned and laughed in a way that sent a chill down my spine. I could see the Sammy Glick in Charge look. "Exactly what did you mean 'your people.' Did you mean Hollywood types? I hope you did, Dawse, I really hope you did." Before Mr. Dawson could continue, Dad spoke again. "Because if I thought you met anything else. I would pull my son out of this school so fast you wouldn't even remember him being there. Then after I was finished with that, I would contact the other parents many of which are 'my people' and make sure they pull their kids out of this school! I would also make sure my younger son never even darkened this school's doorsteps! Then I would get on the phone and call my lawyer to see what I can do to make sure you don't educate any other kids again." He gently led me out of the chair and took my hand. Then he turned to Mr. Dawson. "You know Max is a great kid! Any school would love to have him and all people like you ever see is where his family comes from! I thought this country fought a war to stop this sort of thing, but I guess not! Some of them have been here all along! Fuck it, Max is too good for this school!" We marched out of school.

Dad then enrolled me in a private school, cost was no object, the same school that Chris would later attend when he started the next year.

The teachers were a lot more understanding and while I didn't have any close friends, many of the other students were really nice. Even though I missed going to school with Emily, she was still my neighbor and we were as close as ever.

I also had the metal clunky brace removed finally in favor of a much smaller one made of plastic. It only stretched from my foot to my calf and was easier for me to move. It got to the point where my limp was less noticeable. I also had my crutch changed over to a much smaller cane. While my foot was still misshapen from the polio virus, I felt less conscious about my leg even to the point where I sometimes forgot about my limp unless a total stranger mentioned it.

Because of all the personal struggles with the divorce, Dad adopting Chris, and my illness, there was a definite shift in my father's role at the studio and he knew it too. His Assistants and Vice-Presidents were gaining too much power, and my father wasn't going to allow that. I think they recognized that the divorce and then my illness revealed cracks in my Dad's image as a go-getter, that he was vulnerable. They were able to use that vulnerability and push themselves forward.

Dad glowered about many of the decisions that were made in his absence. Larry Ross managed to sign a theatre actor that Dad had been trying to win over for some time. Also, a movie that was in the planning stages before I became ill was in the can and had favorable early screening reviews. Things were going well and Dad was not happy.

He immediately pushed himself back into the job, reminding everyone that nothing goes without his knowledge or permission. He also resumed his typical speed working at many projects, clawing his way into projects that he wasn't involved. Running ahead. Running forward.

I felt guilty that Dad had to miss so much work because of me and I apologized. Dad ruffled my hair, kissed me, and said, "What would I have done, left you alone? No, wasn't doing that." I wonder if he also felt guilty that he was the reason that I contracted polio in the first place in trying to woo the investors. Sometimes I would catch him giving me a sad and guilty look. I would return the look and we would hold each other's hands in silence, wrapped up in our own guilt.

As my father's role shifted at Worldwide, he began to shift as well. The more enemies that he had, the more he tried to push himself forward and edge others out, the more he tried to stay on top, and he couldn't. He didn't have the energy he used to have.

I would see him stopping to catch his breath, not like he used to like a puppy that panted but was ready to cause more mischief. Instead he stopped and breathed deeply like an old man in the last legs of a marathon. I also would see him at home, his arms full or projects and paperwork and even before he got half-way through the work, he brought, he would nod off asleep. It finally happened, my father, Sammy Glick was finally slowing down and he didn't like it.

He told his problems to his doctor, after I had a check up on my legs. "I don't just have the pep anymore," he sighed to Dr. Albertson as he explained his problems at work.

"Well Mr. Glick you are in middle age," the doctor reminded him. "Maybe you should delegate responsibilities to other workers."

"Not an option," my dad said catching his breath. "I do that and they find an excuse to get rid of me. They're probably already ordering their nameplates now for my desk."

Dr. Albertson considered. "Alright, Mr. Glick, if you insist on continuing with the speed that you are going, then I will write you a prescription for Benzedrine."

Dad accepted it and received his medicine.

At first there weren't too many changes in my Dad's behavior. Then he started talking faster, his eyes would dart back and forth never staying focused on one point for very long. At work, he would be at top volume offering several ideas at once so many that his assistants couldn't keep up with them. He ran from studio to studio to oversee the filmings, making suggestions, arguing with directors, flirting with actresses, suggesting scene changes. Many couldn't keep up with Dad's constant energy. "It's like your father just got shocked with electricity," Al said confused.

Even when he came home, Dad continued to act on a high. Even when he didn't talk to us, he would be mumbling to himself usually about various enemies. His whole body shook and his legs moved up and down like he couldn't settle down even for a minute.

Chris was terrified and muttered, "Gotta keep away. Gotta keep away." As though he remembered something he was taught. I wonder if his mother had problems with drugs as well. Truth be told, Dad scared me too.

Even as I tried to lead Dad to bed, he would lay in bed fully awake his eyes shining, hands shaking, and he would continue mumbling.

Unfortunately, because of my Dad's new-found stimulant, his sleep schedule was completely off. Also, when the artificial high was over, my Dad would crash. That wasn't so bad when he was home and he practically collapsed in bed or on the sofa. But sometimes it happened when he was at work, and fell asleep in his office. (Thankfully since he still had David driving him at the time, he didn't come down while he was driving. For that I was grateful). He needed something to help him return to sleep regularly, so Dr. Albertson prescribed, you guessed it: tranquilizers.

It didn't take long for my Dad to be hooked on bennies and tranks, to the point where he was addicted. He would pop a couple bennies in the morning, then a couple more bennies in the afternoon. Then when he went to bed, he would fall asleep to the tune of two tranks.

Along with the growing addiction came my father's increasing paranoia. He saw enemies everywhere, people who wanted to take his job, take his home, or take his life. He fired one of his secretaries, Miss Night, simply because she suggested that he looked tired.

"You mean old and tired?" Dad said his voice biting with venom. "Like I need a break, a long break. You think I should be removed is that it? Are you working for Ross too?"

Miss Night shook her head confused and ran out of the studio.

Most of the time at home, I saw Dad rocking himself back and forth and swear, "They're all after me you know. They'll find anyway to take what I have. I won't let him, my boya I won't let them destroy what I have." What could a 9-year-old boy who was recovering from polio do except reassure his father that he was right, that everything would be okay, and he still had his sons then lead him to bed?

Unfortunately, this was a bad time for anyone to become paranoid especially when there were a lot of people who were more paranoid than my Dad and certainly recognized his influence in Hollywood and were able to use my father's paranoia and influence to their advantage.

Auburn Red's Notes:

I based the polio treatments on many treatments that were available in the late 40's-early 50's. The disease really came on as I described with a short fever for a few days, followed by a period of normalcy then paralysis. The iron lung really was used and was as uncomfortable as Max described. Even the sensation he had of feeling like he was traveling by airplane or boat was a real one people felt when they were inside. It was also very expensive for at-home treatments but I knew as always with Sammy Glick, cost was never an option.

The bed-sit was another polio treatment and looked as uncomfortable as described as is the metal brace. The plastic one might be a bit of an anachronism, but plastic was starting to be used for many purposes (Remember in _It's a Wonderful Life_ , Sam Wainwrights made a fortune with his plastics factory?)


	7. Chapter 6: Red Baiting and The Book

My Father Sammy Glick: Confessions From The Son of a Hollywood Heel By Max Glick

A What Makes Sammy Run Fanfic

By Auburn Red

Chapter Five: Red Baiting & "The Book"

The Communist Hollywood Blacklist had started in 1947 and began to affect all of us by the 1950's. I remember by '52 at school we faced a giant American flag and were told to recite the pledge of Allegiance (Something most of us barely knew because we didn't always recite it.) "You will recite this every morning before you report to class and do this gesture." Our principal, Mr. McKay continued as he put his hand over his heart. "This school used to do this during the war but we have been lacking in patriotism the past few years. You will do this every morning and recite the pledge and then you will go to class." The way he spoke indicated that was not a request. "Let us begin," He raised his hand over his heart and began as we followed him. I recited it very quietly stumbling one "one nation" forgetting "Under God." "One nation-indivi-Under God-indivisible."

Mr. McKay then stopped and pointed. "You," He commanded. I looked around thinking that he was pointing right at me. Had he known that I didn't say it properly? He stomped forward to a kid dressed very plainly seated with his arms folded. "What's your name?" He asked.

"Jeremiah Little, sir," the boy said.

"Why aren't you reciting the pledge?" He asked.

The boy mumbled something and Mr. McKay shook him and held him up. Jeremiah Little's ears reddened with embarrassment. "What's that?"

"I can't sir," Jeremiah said.

"Why not?" McKay demanded.

"My parents told me that I should never swear allegiance to any flag or country," the boy stammered. He seemed terrified and embarrassed that he was being made a public spectacle but something about the tone of his voice and the way that he stood at attention showed that he was going to be defiant.

"Are your parents Communists?" McKay demanded. "Are they Reds? Answer me!" He shook the boy again.

"No they're Jehovah's Witnesses," Jeremiah said. "We aren't supposed to honor any country."

"Come with me," McKay led Jeremiah Little to his office. When he returned, Jeremiah did not. No one ever saw him again but it was rumored that he was expelled and he and his family moved. When we entered class, we saw these new Civics textbooks with the American Flag and Eagle. No sooner did we sit down than our teacher, Mr. Whitman told us about the difference between our country which is Capitalist and the Soviet Union which is Communist. Later, Chris said that they learned some poems about America one of which said, "My country right or wrong…"

I told Dad what happened at school and he said, "Good for MacKay. He should have expelled that kid."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because you don't question this country," Dad said. "If you do, you're not a Patriot and that makes you suspicious."

"But doesn't he have Freedom of Speech," I asked. "And the right to protest?"

"And the right to deal with the consequences if they don't like it," Dad said. "This country gives you the right to protest sure. But think about it, in many other countries, like Russia him and his folks would be arrested if they did something like that."

""He got expelled," I suggested. "That's hardly free."

"Maybe he should get deported to his own country to see how they deal with protestors," Dad grumbled.

"They're from Massachusetts," I said. "That wouldn't be very far."

"Whatever," Dad said. "My point is, Kiddo, right now, people are on the lookout for Reds. It doesn't pay to speak out. In fact if you want to keep yourself out of trouble, you have nothing to do with them and you name people even if you know them."

"Have you named anybody?" I asked.

"No one's asked me yet," Dad replied.

"If they do, would you?" I asked.

Dad shrugged. "Depends on the name."

I admit that thinking about it later, I admired Jeremiah for standing up for himself. I thought there was something off and creepy about this forced Patriotism, but I didn't say anything. It scared me too much. My father made a spectacle of us enough and I just wanted to blend in and disappear. Now I am as known for my activism protesting the Vietnam War and participating in the Freedom Rides as I am for my writing. Even if I still get anxious and nervous about crowds and public speaking, I don't let it interfere with what I believe is right. In my own way I think of people like Jeremiah Little, and Al and Kit Manheim who stood by their convictions and I think that the Blacklist is what helped shape me to become the man I am today.

The fear of Communism was all around. Not just at school. Chris and I also were followed by a couple of guys in black overcoats and fedoras. One of them stuck out his hand and spoke in that fake "I'm your pal" voice. "Hey there Sport, I understand that you're Max and Chris Glick, Sammy Glick's boys," he said.

I sighed figuring that they were probably reporters. I held Chris' hand tighter, felt the familiar panic clench inside me, and sped up my walking. "Yes," I said shortly.

The man edged closer. "I'm Robert Tully, with the New York Record."

"Didn't Daddy used to work there?" Chris asked me.

"Yes he did about a million years ago," I said quickly in a tone that I hoped Chris would understand meant shut up.

"Indeed he did?" Mr. Tully said with a grin. "We're looking to do a view of the local boy makes good story. I was thinking of a different angle to it."

I stopped. "What kind of angle?"

"Well, Sport, I want to get a whole picture of your Daddy," he said oozing kindness for all it's worth. Chris waved at him and smiled. Robert Tully waved back. "Hey there, Slugger." I rolled my eyes. Slugger? Sport? How many nick-names could he come up with? "Sort of like what your Dad is like when he ain't working. What he does for fun-"

"-He makes movies. That's fun to him," I said sarcastically. He got too close to me and it made me uncomfortable. I stepped back.

Chris smiled and said. "Well sometimes he plays with us and we go swimming. Well me and Daddy go swimming. Max just kind of floats because of his leg."

"Thanks Big Mouth," I said to him.

Mr. Tully smiled as Chris continued. "He sometimes drives us around the Hills and we go places."

"What kind of places?" Tully asked.

There was something kind of weird about the questions that he was asking and I pushed Chris forward. "Come on, Chris let's go." I felt my body clench in fear and panic. I held onto Chris but he stayed put as he explained how Dad sometimes took us out to look at the Hollywood lights or we would go to Lake Arrowhead.

"Now does your Daddy go places by himself?" Tully asked. "Does he have any special friends?"

I rolled my eyes. Oh boy, he's a Gossip Monger he thought. I wonder if he knows anything about mine or Chris's births. "Come on, Chris let's get out of here."

Tully continued. "I want to hear what your brother has to say." He looked at me quizzically. "He is your brother isn't he?"

"What does that mean?" Chris asked. He was beginning to forget his origins the longer he lived with us. By this time he had almost forgotten his birth mother or that he ever lived anywhere else but GlickFair.

"I don't know," I said. "What's that supposed to mean?" I said giving him the eye that I had seen many gangsters do in movies trying to stare him down.

"Nothing," the reporter said. "I'm just upholding friendly conversation. Now, Sonny, why don't you tell me about your Daddy's friends?"

"Well there's Uncle Al and Aunt Kit," Chris said. "They come over all the time."

"Mr. and Mrs. Manheim," Tully said. "Anyone else?"

"Mr. Dugan," Chris said.

"Chris," I hissed. "Ixnay on the Ugan-day." If this guy was looking for gossip who better to be that fountain of gossip than Sheik Dugan, Dad's procurer?

"I want to hear about the Ugan-day," Tully said dryly.

"Well Daddy knew Mr. Dugan since they were in school and sometimes he comes with ladies," Chris said. "But I'm, not 'a-posed to see it much. But I hear that sometimes they make loud noises and talk to God."

I rolled my eyes. "You know Kids." I laughed. "Come on Chris, we have to go home now!"

"Does your Dad go places by himself?" Tully asked.

"No, he's a hermit," I said trying to end this interview.

"Sometimes he goes with Mr. Dugan and Mr. Manheim and they go places," Chris said.

"What kind of places? "Tully asked.

"He doesn't know," I blurted out at the same time Chris said. "I don't know." "He never tells us," I said. I knew that sounded worse but ignorance hopefully was bliss. "He just hangs out with them. Mr. Manheim and Mr. Dugan don't like each other, so Dad doesn't go with them together. Just separately and Mr. Dugan doesn't come by the house much." I stammered. "They don't do a whole lot together anymore."

Chris looked at me confused but before he could argue and reveal more stuff. I looked at my watch and said dramatically. "Look at the time, we have to go. Come on, Chris." I grabbed my brother's hand as we moved forward.

"Enjoyed talking to you, boys," Tully said. "It's a good start."

"Why did we leave Max?" Chris asked. "He seemed nice."

"Yeah sometimes the nice ones are the worst," I said. When we were away from him, I stopped and knelt down so I could be face-to-face with Chris. "Chris, you can't always trust people. Sometime people want to find things, things that hurt people."

"What kind of things?" Chris asked.

"Secret things," I said. "Dad, well you know Dad sometimes does things that aren't always right like when he drinks or takes his pills. Remember how he scares us?" Chris nodded so I continued. "A lot of people will use that to make Dad look worse than he is. Or sometimes when he's with Sheik's ladies?"

Chris nodded. "Just don't talk about Mr. Dugan okay? He's a family secret."

"Okay," Chris said. He stuck up his finger. "Brothers forever?"

"Brothers forever," I agreed as we linked pinky fingers. I smiled. The Escapist League of the Golden Key Decoder Ring had been lost inside the trappings of Chris' messy room but we never forgot the Brothers Pledge.

I didn't think any further about Robert Tully, until about a week later when Dad didn't come home from work. I looked out at the skylights as 7:00 approached. I was confused. While Dad didn't always come home at a regular hour, he either called or his assistants said that he had to work late on revisions or was going to hang out with Al or Sheik. I asked Enid if she knew anything about where Dad was but she said that he didn't tell her anything. "Maybe he is still at the studio," she suggested.

I shrugged and dialed Worldwide's Executive Office. I heard the clear voice of Iona Page, Dad's secretary. "Hi Miss Page," I said. "It's Max Glick."

"Oh Hi Max," she said sweetly.

"Is my Dad at the studio?" I asked.

"He left at the usual time," she said. "He's not home yet?"

I felt like saying "Yes he's right here. I'm only calling because I have a crush on you." But I figured she heard enough sarcasm from my Dad, so I didn't. "No and he hasn't called. I'm a little concerned." I didn't tell her that I was concerned that Dad in his hyped up or drunken state might have gotten into a car accident. With David no longer working for the Glick family, Dad drove and had lately become a hazard on the road.

"Well let me check just to be sure," Miss Page said. She put me on hold but came back. "I'm sorry Max, he checked out two hours ago. But I'm sure he's on his way. I'll let him know you called if he returns to the studio."

"Okay thanks," I said. I then called Al Manheim and looked outside wondering if Dad had pulled up at Al's house to talk to him. I only saw Al and Kit's cars parked in the garage and no one else's. "Hi Uncle Al, have you seen my Dad?" I explained the highlights of the evening including talking to Iona Page.

"I haven't seen him," Al said. "But you know your Dad, he probably had to stop and talk about his success to some reporter. He could be there awhile or he wanted to go tie one over."

"Yeah that's what I'm afraid of," I mumbled hoping Al didn't hear that.

Obviously he did because he was trying to give me false hope. "I'm sure he's alright. He's not going to do anything illeg- well he's not going to do anything stupi- well he's not going to hurt any-" He stopped realizing that they all would have applied to Sammy Glick. He could do something illegal, stupid, and could hurt somebody. "Well I'm sure he's alright."

He caught the tension in my sigh. "Do you want me or Aunt Kit to come over until your Dad comes home?"

"No, it is okay," I said. "You're probably right. I'm sure he's okay." I hung up unconvinced.

9, 10:00 and Dad still wasn't home yet. I helped Chris get ready for bed and then read Tarzan of the Jungle to him before he slept. "Will Daddy come back?" Chris asked.

"Yeah I'm sure he will," I tried to reassure him and covered him up.

I stayed awake feeling my eyes drift. I kept listening for the door to open and Dad to come home. I kept visualizing the headline: Worldwide Mogul Sammy Glick In Critical Condition!...Worldwide Mogul Sammy Glick Arrested For Public Intoxication…Mogul Sammy Glick Declared Dead!... Part of me hoped a fixer would show up if Dad was in trouble. I winced wanting to forget the thoughts and put my head on the pillow. I kept panicking and hyperventilating as my brain imagined worst case scenarios.

I was about to finally approach REM sleep as the sky lightened for day. I heard the door click open. Delighted I ran downstairs to see my Dad enter through the door.

I expected to see my Dad hung over but with a happy smile on his face from having a wild night on the town. But he didn't look that way. Instead he swayed forward. His whole face and body sagged. His hair was misshapen and his clothes were in disarray. He looked miserable. "Where were you?" I asked.

Dad shuffled forward and rubbed his forehead like he had a headache. I thought he was hung over and shook my head irritated. I was up all night worried about him and he was getting drunk on me. "Where were you?" I repeated more sternly. "I was worried sick!"

Dad shook his head and looked confused. "I'm sorry I forgot for a second. Who's the father here?" He poured himself a drink.

"So where were you?" I continued.

"I was just out okay?" Dad said.

"On a Wednesday night?" I asked.

"Bars are open on Wednesday nights," Dad said. "The Brown Derby is open on Wednesday nights!"

"Were you with somebody?" I asked.

"I was with a friend," Dad said indicating that he didn't want to continue this conversation.

"But I spoke to all your friend," I said sarcastically. "And Uncle Al said you weren't with him."

"Why am I raising such a smart ass kid," Dad mumbled. "I do have more than one friend!" _Name one,_ I wanted to shout back. He continued. "Sheik, I was with Sheik. I went to a bar and ran into him. We went out with his broads and I lost track of time! That's all. Is that aright with you, Ma?!" I knew Dad's ever changing moods and I knew that he wasn't with Sheik the night before. Usually when he came back, he looked triumphant and had a bold smile on his face. He didn't look that way here. He looked agitated, jumpy, and sick. His hands shook as he put a cigar to his mouth and lit it. I didn't believe him. Either he was with Sheik and had a fight with him or he wasn't with Sheik at all and something worse had happened that he wouldn't tell me.

He walked into the kitchen and opened a cabinet door reaching for an Amphetamine. In the past couple of years, since his doctor began prescribing pills, my dad went from Benzedrine to amphetamines and tranquilizers to barbiturates. He claimed the original stuff was no longer working and needed something stronger to keep his energy up and to help him sleep. Of course the stronger the drugs were, the more addicted my Dad became.

He staggered over to his liquor cabinet and poured himself a brandy. "Dad you're not supposed to mix those."

"Two words for you kiddo," Dad said. "Fuck and off." He took the pills and swallowed the brandy almost with a leer that said "I can do whatever I want." He swallowed the brandy whole. "I gotta get to work and you gotta wake up your brother and get ready for school."

I was tired from the long night, so I told him that I wasn't feeling well. Dad looked me up and down. "You look okay to me. I had a bad night too." _Yeah drinking_ I thought. It must have been really hard for you. But I didn't say anything. "Just get going okay? I got some stuff I gotta do." I wondered what he had to do but I headed upstairs to wake Chris.

The next day started out normally. Chris and I were at Emily's house playing our latest game: Detective/Spies. We took a break as I was trying to write a secret code with invisible ink. Emily gave me a few ideas as she spun in her hula hoop (Her latest obsession, a birthday gift from her parents. Emily took any opportunity to spin inside it. I think she was going for a record.) Chris played with a large army doll and Emily's female doll. I think the Army guy was rescuing the doll or something.

"How about this?" I suggested. "We use numbers for each letter? Like 1585 can be The?"

"Too boring," Emily said. "That's just like that movie we saw." Her hips wiggled inside the hula hoop as she talked.

"Okay how about pictures?" I suggested. "Each one will start with the same letter. Like we use a for apple or b for bear."

Emily giggled. "You can't draw. Neither can I. Our ball would like an apple! We'd say stuff like "Meet Alice would be Meet Blice."

I laughed too. "How about using the last letters of the alphabet to be the first letters? Like Z for A and so on… So Meet Alice becomes N VVH ZMWTV."

"That's kind of confusing," Emily said counting the numbers and letters off her fingers. "If we are writing in invisible ink, we don't need a code silly."

"But part of the fun is writing the code," I argued.

I was about to think of another idea when a car pulled up. A short man in glasses jumped out of the car and ran. "Hi Mr. Blumberg," Emily called with a wave.

"Hi kids," Julian Blumberg called to the three of us. I knew Julian Blumberg, a writer only by sight. My dad used to make fun of him calling him a "schlemiel" but he was a good friend of Emily's parents so she knew him better than we did. "Emily, are your folks home?" He said. He stammered and looked scared.

"Yeah, they're inside," Emily pointed. "But they're in their writing room and are way past deadline so you don't want to interrupt them." She said repeating obviously what her parents told her that morning.

Julian Blumberg headed for the house and knocked. After some arguing with Stella, he was admitted inside.

Chris looked up from his toys. I dropped my detective notebook and Emily jumped out of her hula hoop, circling it around her leg as it fell. "What do you think he wants?" I asked out loud. "He looked like he was in trouble."

"Maybe we should find out," Emily suggested.

"Why?" I said confused.

"We're detectives, Max, we detect," she said putting her hand towards her eye like it was a magnifying glass. Chris and I followed her as she whispered shhh to us boys. Chris walked behind me following his big brother. Emily waved us forward to the door of her parents' writing room.

The three of us leaned towards the door as we could hear the adults arguing loudly. Julian's nebbish whine came first. "I couldn't believe my eyes either but there we were in Red Channels!" He said. "There it is black and white and read all over, if you pardon the expression.

Al must have read out loud. "Time of the Young had pro-Russian and anti-American sentiments in its original script."

Obviously, Kit was reading the article as well. "The Sex Express contains subversive roles for women."

"Looks like this reporter, Robert Tully did his homework," Al said dryly.

Chris and I looked at each other in surprise. "Isn't Robert Tully t that guy-" Chris said loudly. Both Emily and I shushed him.

"The reporter that followed us that day and asked you all kinds of questions, yeah," I said. "I told you shouldn't trust certain people."

"I didn't say anything bad about Uncle Al and Aunt Kit," Chris said his eyes watering.

"I know you didn't, kiddo," I said sounding like Dad for a minute there.

"Shhh," Emily said. "I want to hear."

"Someone must have informed them to find out that much about us," Kit mused out loud. "Who could it have been?"

"I'll give you one guess," Al said bitterly.

I had a sickening feeling, I knew who Al was going to name, but he never got the chance. I swear that sometimes real life can be as dramatic as the movies because no sooner did I have my suspicion that my father had named his best friends as Communists, then said father came sprinting into the Manheim's home. He glanced right up at us and ran upstairs. "There you two are," he said. "Max, Chris, come with me. You're going home now!"

"Why?" I asked. "Uncle Al and Aunt Kit already said that we could stay for dinner."

"I know," Dad said. He was clearly frantic and he grabbed onto Chris' arm. "But something came up. You have to come home now!"

"What's going on?" I asked. "Is it an emergency?"

"No, yes, sort of," Dad said. He dragged Chris down the stairs. The commotion caused Al, Kit, and Julian to emerge from the writing room. They looked puzzled to see Dad in the house.

"What are you doing here, Sammy?" Al asked.

"Just getting my kids come on," Dad said getting us on the foot of the steps.

"Why are we going?" Chris said.

"Yeah, I want to stay here with Emily," I said.

"Dammit," Dad shouted. "Look I don't have time to argue with you kids. Now, I give the orders so you're coming with me now!"

A large knock filled the house. Stella, who up until then had stood by the wall confused, opened the door. "Yes?"

"You work for Albert Manheim," the man said.

I guess Stella sensed something wasn't right because she said, "I'm sorry, sir but Mr. Manheim isn't home."

Kit and Al exchanged a rapid glance. Kit nodded and Al held up his hand. "It's alright Stella, we're here."

Stella opened the door and two men in trench coats and dark suits appeared. They looked like FBI agents. "Albert Manheim, Catherine Sargent. Oh and Julian Blumberg. We went by your house but you weren't there."

Julian stammered. "I-I-I'm sorry Al and Kit, I must have led them right to you."

"Who are you?" Al said tightly.

"We represent the House of Un-American Activities and we would like for you three to come with us," the agent said.

"May we ask why?" Kit asked. "What are the charges?"

"No charges, we just want you to answer a few questions," the man said.

"Is this based on our placement in Red Channels?" Al asked holding up the newsletter.

"Something to do with that," the agent said.

"Was there an informer?" Al inquired in a tone that he indicated that he knew the answer.

"We are not at liberty to give you that information," the agent said. "Now please come with us."

"But you are at liberty to arrest us based on second hand information," Kit replied.

"This process will go a lot easier on you if you simply cooperated," the man sighed. "Now you three could either come willingly or in handcuffs. Those are your options."

Al, Kit, and Julian walked down the stairs. Julian simply looked petrified, but Al looked furious. Kit looked defiant and she walked downstairs like a queen demeaning herself to the peasants. Al walked downstairs but kept his eyes on my father. At first, Dad stepped back and would not look at either of them.

Once again, the very sick feeling returned. Had Dad named his best friends as Communists? Would even he do that? Al and Kit weren't Communists. They always stood up for the little guy in their writing and their charities. They always taught Emily that everyone deserved a fair chance. But I knew that they weren't Communists. How could Dad have gotten it so wrong if he did?

Al walked towards Dad. Dad just stared at his friend showing no emotion except hardness. Al shook his head and clenched his fist. I thought for a second there he would punch Dad's lights out. He glanced around at us and Kit and dropped his hand. Silently, he walked downstairs and joined Kit and Julian.

Emily however wasn't silent. She ran up to the agents and shouted, "No you can't take my Mom and Dad! They hadn't done anything wrong!" She then kicked the agent in the shin.

Everyone started talking at once as a couple of the agents were about to take out guns. The agent Emily kicked held out his hand to stop them. Kit yelled for Stella to take Emily. Emily sobbed in Stella's arms as Al reassured her. "It will be okay, Honey, Mom and I are going with them. We'll be back soon." He gave her a hug and Kit kissed her on top of the head. They then walked out the door with the agents close behind.

The only sounds for a time that could be heard were Emily's tears and Stella's words of assurance. Dad then picked up Chris who looked pale and terrified, and shook. Dad hugged him tightly almost like a security blanket and said, "Come on guys."

He reached out to me but I was still angry. I pushed away from him and purposely walked closer to Emily. "Come on Max," Dad said more sternly.

I purposely walked closer to Emily and gave her a hug. I then took out a piece of paper and wrote in invisible ink, 'I love you.' I whispered, "Your Mom and Dad didn't do anything wrong. They know that. They'll come back soon. Everything will be okay. I promise." I said.

"You sure?" Emily choked.

"I'm positive," I said. I gave her the note and hugged and kissed her on the cheek. I followed my father but remained at a distance from him.

I couldn't sleep that night so I kept looking outside the window at the Manheim's house. Everything looked the same as before, quiet and reserved. For a time, Emily's was the only light on but even that eventually turned off. Dad tried a couple of times to get me to talk to him, but I couldn't say anything to him. Had he really turned in my best friends' parents, his best friends? I remember what he said, _In fact if you want to keep yourself out of trouble, you have nothing to do with them and you name people, even if you know them_. Was that what he was doing that night when he didn't come home until morning?

A pair of headlights rolled down the street and stopped in front of the Manheim's home. Kit and Al stepped out with the same agents that took them earlier. The agents appeared to argue with them and then reentered the car and drove away. The two stood in front of their house locked in a heated argument. Kit held Al back as if trying to stop him from doing something, but Al pushed her hand off of him. He said something which I guess was to reassure her. Then he walked straight towards our house.

He banged on the door and I could hear my father letting him inside. "I'm a detective," I said remembering Emily's words. "I detect." I then crept out of my room and walked across the hallway to my Dad's study.

Al and Dad were already arguing when I came in.

"Did you name us to HUAC, Sammy?" Al asked.

"What makes you think I did, Al," Dad replied. I could hear the sound of glass clinking together and I knew that my Dad poured himself a drink.

"They were proud to tell me what a great patriotic American my best friend Sammy Glick was," Al said sarcastically.

"They may have been lying," Dad said. "Just to get you to name me."

"Even if they hadn't told me," Al said. "They knew about a lot of things personal things that only you would know. They knew about our involvement in the Guild, which I might add you were a President," Al began.

"Everyone knows we were in the Guild," Dad said sarcastically. "Everyone also knows that I left which you and Kit never did."

"They knew about the original draft script to Time of the Young," Al said. "The one that you wouldn't accept."

"I told you putting friendly Russkies in there would come back and bite you on the ass," Dad reminded him.

"They also know about our financing Kindertransport to Israel," Al said. "And somehow they know that its co-founder was a Socialist."

"Those are easy things to research, Al," Dad said. "You can't prove any of that was me."

"Are you denying that you had anything to do with them," Al asked.

"I don't have to deny anything to you, Alsy Palsy," Dad said. "Maybe instead of asking who fingered you to Red Channels now, but why they didn't finger you and Kit sooner? After all they've been looking for Reds since the war ended and you two never seem to keep your mouths shut! What was it you were saying that 'we let at lot of innocent people go to their deaths.;"

"Can you say that we didn't?" Al answered back.

"Can you say that people might think that comment is rather suspicious and if someone is asked whether he knew any Commies might actually remember that comment and use that against you?" Dad reminded him.

If you weren't good at reading Sammy Glick's emotions, you would believe that he had denied it but if you knew him as well as Al and I did then you know he just admitted that he named his friends to HUAC. Al was silent. When he spoke again, I almost didn't recognize his voice. "Sammy, I didn't want to believe that even you would turn his own friends in-"

"I didn't," Dad shot back almost too abruptly like a kid who kept insisting "Did not" when their mother caught them lying. "But if I did, you knew me for years. Why is it a surprise?"

" 'You knew I was a snake when you found me,' " Al quoted.

"What?" Dad asked.

"It's an old story," Al explained. "A little girl picks up a sick but poisonous snake, takes care of it, feeds it, and lets it sit in her coat. When the snake gets better, he bites the girl. As she's dying, she asks why he bit her. The snake then says 'You knew I was a snake when you found me.' "

"Is that you think of me, Al?" Dad said. "That's all I am. Just a snake, someone who would turn someone in just because that's his nature, that's who he is?"

"I can't think of any other reason," Al said. "Your main motivation has always been self-preservation. It's always been Sammy Glick over everyone else."

"If you think that then why are you here?" Dad snapped back.

"If you were the one who told them then I want you to drop our names from the list," Al said. "Tell them that you were wrong."

"I can't do that Al," Dad said.

"If you don't do it for me fine," Al said. "Then do it for Kit. Base it on your old relationship if you have to. Don't let both of Emily's parents suffer from a bad reputation."

"I can't do it for either of you Al," Dad said. "Even if I revoked your names, the suspicion is still out there. People will know about you. I think you should leave now, Al. In fact I don't want to see you anymore and I don't want our kids to see each other anymore. I'm not going to be thought of as guilty by association."

"What did they have on you Sammy?" Al asked. "Why did you do it?"

"Like you said," Dad replied sarcastically. "I'm a snake, it was you or me. Leave it at that."

"No if that were true then like you said, you could have fingered us long ago when the hearings first started," Al reasoned. "True Kit and I are not members of the Communist Party but there still is enough to get HUAC interested. Why did you wait until now to tell them?"

"You want some deeper mystery?" Dad said. "Well there isn't one. They told me either my name or yours. I'm a heel! I've always been a heel. Can't you just leave it?"

"Fine I'll leave it," Al said.

"Al," Dad said desperately. "Bit of advice from me to you, it will go a hell of a lot easier if you just name names. You want to be smart and you want to protect your….self and your reputation, you will do what I did and cooperate."

"Like the Salem Witch Trials," Al said. "Naming names always leads to more names then where does it stop? People only just get more panicked and paranoid."

"When enemies are all around what do you expect?" Dad said. "At least they won't bother you. At least you won't get in trouble."

"Sammy I refused to name anyone today and there are many that I could have," Al said. "And no I am not telling you any of them. If they question me again, the only thing I will have to say will be 'More Weight!' "

I could hear footsteps approaching the door and a hand turning the knob. I stepped back thinking that Al was going to leave when Dad's voice called him back. "I covered for you and Kit for a long time. I kept them from getting to you sooner. You keep sticking your neck out, I can't cover for you. I'll have to tell them everything."

Al stood silent. "You do what you have to do, Sammy. Tell them what you want. I will do what I have to do."

Dad laughed a laugh that sent chills down my spine. "What would you do, Al lecture me? Tell me that it's immoral or unethical?"

"I'm through with lecturing you," Al said. "Because nothing I have ever said matters. I'm just going to let people really look at you." He stopped and turned the knob again. I stepped back into the shadows.

I waited until Al left before I opened the door to Dad's study. Dad jumped before he put three or four barbiturates in his mouth. "What?" he asked sharply.

"Are you okay, Dad?" I asked. "I heard you and Uncle Al fighting."

"I'm fine, Max," Dad said. "I don't know what Al's problem is."

I felt my breath catch in my throat. "Did you really name Uncle Al and Aunt Kit, Dad?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Dad said fiercely.

"Why?" I asked as I walked forward. I put my hand on my Dad's shoulder. "Was it really between Al or you?"

Dad recoiled as if he were bitten by a snake. He shifted away from me. Dad and I looked at each other. He swayed back and forth and was shaking. He breathed heavily like he was sick. I looked closely at his eyes and could see they were dilated and unfocused. Was he on something stronger than the downers? Was he filled with guilt for turning his friends in? Had he told Al the truth that he simply turned in his friends to save his own ass or was there a deeper reason that only he knew or was it all of the above? "I said," Dad said sharply. "I. DON'T. WANT. TO TALK ABOUT. IT. EVER." He swallowed some liquor. I was about to remind him again not to mix alcohol with the pills but I had a feeling he was not in the mood for another lecture. He continued to shake and leaned on the fold-in couch for support. "I just, I have too many enemies. There all around and I have to fight them all. They watch me and they spy on me. They tell reporters things and they say things." He leaned on the couch until he sank down.

"What kind of things?" I asked hoping to help Dad gain some sense in his rambling.

"Just things," Dad said. "Things they could say that could hurt…us..you my boys. It's like being in front of the lions and they're hungry. They're circling around you and they want to eat. But you don't want them to eat you. They can see your weak spot. They have their eye on it. They know if they get a hold of that weak spot then they got you. They know it will kill you and they won't let you go until they've eaten every bite of you. They don't want to eat you just yet. They want to toy with you. So, they're walking around very slowly waiting for you to move. There's a ledge that you can just make it, even if you move slowly. But you see your friend standing on that ledge. He's close to the edge, but they don't see him yet oh no. They see you, so oh you could die but you could also jump to safety and give them your friend instead."

"Or could you yell for your friend to get out of the way," I suggested.

"And let the lions eat you," Dad said. "No, that's what they want. Are you trying to make an enemy of me?"

He grabbed onto my arms and shook me hard. I was so close; I could smell the whiskey on his breath and could see his bloodshot dilated eyes. "Don't become my enemy too!"

"I'm not," I said terrified. "I'm your son." Dad relaxed his grip and pushed away from me and sank onto the couch. "I'm not going to hurt you, Dad and I'm never going to be your enemy."

"Of course you're not," Dad said slowly. He laid his hands on his lap and sighed. "Look why don't you just get out of here, okay? I'm really tired and I want to be alone for a while."

I nodded and kissed the top of my Dad's forehead before I left him alone.

Al and Kit later told me the conversation that they had that night. Al stomped into their bedroom and slammed the door. He threw down his jacket and undid his necktie angrily. "How is Emily?" he asked.

"She's fine, asleep, but fine," Kit said. "How did it go?"

"How do you think?" Al asked sarcastically.

"So it was him," Kit said. "He won't retract?"

"You'd have an easier time asking Mt. Everest to move," Al sighed. He reached over and turned on the closet light. He then opened a valise and took out a manuscript.

"What's that?" Kit asked.

Al held the manuscript tightly. "It's what may save us."

Kit realized. "That's the book about Sammy isn't it?" She saw him work on it off and on for years. Sometimes he put it away. Sometimes he vowed to destroy it, but Kit noticed he never did. Al kept it for insurance, she always figured, and she knew eventually he would cash in.

Al nodded. "Sammy's right. I can't make him retract and even if I could the accusation will still be out there. The only thing I can do is convince the public that Sammy Glick's word cannot be trusted. They need to know what a liar he really is."

He put the manuscript on the bed as Kit skimmed it. Al continued. "It has everything, when we met on the Record, how he screwed everyone over-Julian, you, me, his family. How he couldn't write a letter let alone a script without stealing it!"

"It's pretty thorough," Kit said. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I wouldn't have to do it if he hadn't named us first," Al declared.

"So he raises the gauntlet and you accept the challenge," Kit reasoned. "Like a pair of knights in a joust or noblemen in a duel."

"Yes and just like them I'm fighting for my family's honor," Al said.

"I'm sure Sammy thinks the same thing," Kit said.

"He doesn't have honor," Al said. "He only has ambition, greed, and the ethics of a snake. It's about time everyone took a good look at him."

"He also has two sons," Kit reminded him. "How do you think Max and Chris are going to feel when they hear about this? What about Emily? Max is her best friend."

"The book doesn't even mention the kids," Al said. "I'm not going to put this over their heads. It ends the night he married Laurette. The night, when I thought, when I knew that there was no saving him."

"But that man didn't have children," Kit said. "You said so yourself that after he had Max and Chris, he became a different person. What did you say to me once, 'I think I'm even beginning to like him.' When Max had polio, you stayed with Sammy when he needed you. Don't you remember, when you cam back, you talked about burning the manuscript."

"Well that only kept him at bay," Al said. "The past year or so, he's gone back. If anything, he's worse than before."

"Am I the only one who knows about this?" Kit asked.

"Well I told Buddy Schulberg about it," Al said. "Believe it or not, he has bigger ax to grind with this town than I do. Not that I blame him with his father. Apparently, he was Sammy Glick: The Early Years. He was going to write something about his father but he was interested in co-authoring my book too."

"I'm sure everyone around here has a story like that," Kit said.

"And I'm going to use it," Al said. "He'll be one less greedy son of a bitch profiting off others' miseries, one less spy for HUAC saving his own ass by turning others in. Kit, I have spent over 20 years letting Sammy Glick walk over people, doing whatever he wanted to whomever he wanted. He thinks he's invincible that no one can touch him. Well, he's wrong. "

"Maybe if I talked to him or Max did," Kit said.

Al shook his head. "Kit, he won't listen to anybody. Not to you, not to me, not to his sons. Not to anybody. The only person he'll listen to is himself, so maybe it's about time he did."

"What the gift it gives us to see ourselves as others see us,' Kit quoted Robert Burns.

"Exactly," Al said. "This book gets published and everyone will see the real Sammy Glick."

Kit nodded but inside she thought _, I wasn't talking only about him_.

Well I suppose Senator Joseph McCarthy could take some delight that he wasn't the number one news in Hollywood when What Makes Sammy Run? was published a year later. It actually knocked McCarthy off the top spot for weeks and was the number 1 bestseller that year. (Hooray for Dad.) The title alone was the butt of many jokes and commentaries. (At least they didn't have to use the commentaries to determine if Sammy Glick was a fictionalized version of someone else. He was out there for the world to see.) The book and my father as well were analyzed, dissected, reviewed, argued about, argued against, defended, derided, and held as an example of the best or worst of the American Dream. (How many sons could say that about their father?)

There were two camps instantly about the book both for and against, or rather for and against Sammy Glick's character. Many thought it was a perfect indictment of Hollywood and the final analysis that went into creating such people. Sammy Glick seemed like the archetype figure that came out of that town. There were many moguls and producers like Sam Goldwyn who could find someone who they could look down on and disassociate themselves with. It was not uncommon for someone in those days to say at a cocktail party after someone listed their flaws to add "Well at least I'm not Sammy Glick" which usually resulted in scales of laughter. (Of course these men weren't any better or any worse than my Dad. They just were never caught and their best friends never wrote a book about them.)

The book was read by everyone and seen everywhere, in every studio. Well except one of course. Worldwide Productions suddenly had a direct order that if anyone was caught reading or discussing a certain book during work time, then it was considered pandering to gossip and deflating any chances of any future motion picture success and therefore they were let go. (There were many who were let go for that offense).

Chris, Dad, and I couldn't escape hearing about "The Book." As I mentioned before, Dad had attempted suicide the night the book was published. I sat over him that night and held his hand as he mumbled in his sleep, tossed and turned, but eventually fell asleep. I was worried that he would try again, but Dad never wanted to acknowledge the suicide attempt. If he caught me looking too worried too long at him, or asking if he was alright, he would shoot back with "Will you stop looking at me like I'm going to break? I'm not made of glass!" He would continue to bark orders, remind everyone he was in charge, and retreat into his liquor, pills, and times with Sheik.

In his way to prove himself beyond "The Book," Dad had no failsafe when it came to running his studio. He approved of several big budget blockbusters that he was certain were going to turn Worldwide's (and his reputation) around, budget be damned. He approved of many projects: a Biblical epic about the Maccabees, a musical about two lovers destined to be the next Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds traveling through Rome and Paris, and a western about a nebbish Jewish man from New York teaming up with a hardened cowpoke in Texas. All he was certain were going to be Worldwide's crowning jewels with their epic scopes, bright colors, and wide screen views. Between my father's reputation from "The Book" and the inflated costs of production, there were plenty of closed door meetings around Worldwide and many executives, including Larry Ross, measured my dad's desk for where they could place their plants, silently waiting for the final moments when my dad would step out and they would step in.

There were plenty of frosty looks, sarcastic jokes at school made at our dad's expense, and if Chris or I stepped out of line even momentarily a lot of "like father like son" comments. I think my fists got quite a work out during that time and I was suspended at least twice in school for getting into fights defending my Dad's honor.

Chris surprisingly drew more inward during this time. Instead of arguing or defending our Dad, he drifted away from the book and the publicity. He would sometimes retreat into his bedroom where I would see him sometimes staring at the walls for a long time, sometimes mumbling to himself, and drawing frantically in either his sketch pad or on the walls, not pictures just images, shapes, colors. It was the first time I saw him do this and as I later discovered it wouldn't be the last.

To be fair, Al didn't come off any better in the final analysis. There were many who thought What Makes Sammy Run? was an indictment against capitalism and the American Dream. ("What would one expect from an alleged Communist?" many said.) There were some who thought Al was simply trying to get attention or building up his reputation by maligning Dad's. Anyway, between "The Book" and Dad's naming Al and Kit to HUAC, their reputations suffered a dangerous hit as well. I'm also not completely sure that Dad didn't have enough influence that he kept them from finding work. They made a few scripts with different aliases but none were big hits.

I didn't know how much my friend's parents' reputations suffered until one day, I saw a piece of paper sneak from the letter drop onto the ground. I picked it up, confused that it was blank. But then I remembered, our Detectives/Spies game. I picked up the invisible ink kit from my room and I could read the words, "Come and see me at the Woolworth drug store, Emily."

I walked to the corner drug store and saw my best friend seated by the desk. She sipped a soda fountain but she had tears in her eyes. "Emily, what's wrong?" I asked.

She moved aside and let me sit next to her. "We're leaving L.A."

I was stunned. "When?"

She sighed. "Tomorrow. We're moving."

"How long?" I asked.

Emily shrugged. "I don't know. Mom and Dad said that they can't find work around here anymore. Dad said that all Hollywood is a bunch of mud-slinging and hating each other."

I bristled. "And your Dad didn't mind slinging mud at my Dad!"

She fumed. "If your Dad hadn't told on my Dad, he wouldn't have!"

We just glared at each other angrily, silently defending our fathers. Emily sniffed and ran out of the store. I felt guilty. I paid for her soda and followed her out the door. She fiercely rubbed her eyes but gulped with tears. "Would you like me to walk you home?" Emily nodded as we walked towards the house.

Emily and I walked home sadly. "So where are you and your parents going to live?"

Emily shrugged. "Mom and Dad want to visit Israel and I think it would be kind of neat to see it. We might go to New York for a while. They both have friends there. But I'm going to miss all my friends here, especially…" She couldn't finish but I knew.

"Well we can still write," I suggested.

Emily nodded. "I'm going to miss you, Max. You're my best friend."

"You're my best friend too," I said. "My only friend."

We reached the house and I gave her a hug. A voice interrupted us. "Emily," We looked up to see her father. "Come on now, you have to get packing." Rather than argue with her father, Emily fell into Al's arms as he led her into the house.

I looked downward as Al spoke very low and measured. "It was nothing against you or your brother, Max."

I glared. "No you just hate my Dad that's all."

He sighed and nodded as though he expected me to say something like that. "I don't even hate your Dad. I just hate what he turned into, the process that turns out people like your Dad. Maybe in some ways, I'm sorry for him."

I laughed. "Really, sorry for my father? My father is the last person who wants anyone to feel sorry for him. You think you're stopping him, but you're not. He'll just keep going maybe because of people like you."

"That's why he needs you," Al said. "You and Chris are the only things that have kept him sane."

"It used to be you," I reminded him still not ready to accept any forgiveness in the name of family loyalty.

"It was never me," Al said. "I know that now. One day he's going to fall, burn out in the worst way possible. When it comes, I know you will be the one to pick him up and take care of him." I wonder if Al thought that as long as Dad had Chris and me, then he couldn't be too hurt by the fall-out from "The Book." Perhaps he thought that we, especially me, would be able to see Dad through the bad weather that was too come.

"I know that too," I mumbled to myself. As I looked at my feet, I could see a larger shadow behind them. I turned around to see my Dad standing over me.

Dad significantly didn't look at Al, didn't even acknowledge his presence. He just looked at me and said," Come on Max, you better get home now."

I thought about saying something, arguing that I should spend more time with my best friend on her last day in the neighborhood. But I didn't. "You'd better get going," Al said. "Take care Max."

I looked upwards. "Bye Al," I said knowing that it was the first time I called Al Manheim by his first name, not "Uncle Al." That relationship was gone and was never going to return. Significantly, neither Dad nor Al looked at or even spoke to each other as we left.

Dad and I left the Manheim's front porch and I waved good-bye to them. Emily never saw me, so I don't know if she waved back. When their car pulled out of the driveway for the last time, I looked sadly out the window and gave another wave. I looked up at Dad who was stone faced as his friend left his life, at the time I thought for good. It would be another three years before Dad, Chris, and I saw the Manheims again. By then all of our circumstances had completely altered so much we barely recognized each other.

Auburn Red's notes

As previously stated the fictional universe version of What Makes Sammy Run? is published at least 10 years after the real life version. The reason that I chose it to be published during this time was because I thought the political conflicts with the Red Scare would be the perfect climate for Al to finally publish his book about Sammy. It also implies that he didn't publish it until then was because of the children and whether he wanted Max and Chris to suffer from the accusations. (With their final conversation Al hints that he thinks that Max could not only handle the negative publicity but look after his father when he needs him.)

Al Maheim's position during the Red Scare and his refusal to name names is ironic considering Budd Schulberg, his author did and got quite a lot of criticism for it. Al's line about "More Weight" is attributed to Giles Corey one of the accused witches of Salem. When they asked if he was a witch, he refused to answer so they put stones on him to press him. The more stones they put on him, the more Corey said "More weight" rather than confess to witchcraft or accusing other witches. He remained the only person executed by being pressed to death in the United States.

Red Channels was a real-life publication that reported on accused Communists. Confirmed party members and even people who were guilty by association were named in the publication.

Many of the criticisms and analysis both for and against What Makes Sammy Run? are real ones made about the book itself over the years. Max's comment about how at least people don't debate whether Sammy is a fictionalized version of someone else is an inside reference to the actual book. Schulberg wrote that most of the criticism leveled at the book is over the identity of the "real" Sammy Glick. (Of course in the fic, the real deal is out there for the world to see.) Many candidates have been speculated including Samuel Goldwyn, Hal Warner, and Schulberg's own father, B.P. Schulberg. Schulberg always said that there were plenty of models for Sammy and that there was no one inspiration for him. All of Hollywood played its part in creating him.


End file.
